While My Wife's Away

by James Lear

  What was I wearing? God knows. I forget. But I remember him there at my side, his cheeks flushed with dancing and drinking, the white cotton sticking to his sweaty back, and I thought that this was what it meant to have a friend, someone who was always there for you, your wingman, your bro, and I probably slurred something to that effect in his ear.

  And then more drinks came, and we danced with some girls, and it was getting late and I was getting pissed, and the others seemed to have disappeared, and Stuart said it was time to get a cab back to the hotel.

  I did the usual thing in the back of the cab, arm around his shoulders telling him he was my best mate, I love you bro, the same old stag night shit that cabbies the world over have heard a million times.

  But things took a different turn when we got back to the hotel.

  Stuart took control, got me into the lift and up to our room— he’d taken charge of the keys, of course. I kicked off my shoes, slung my jacket over the back of a chair—it slid to the ground—and threw myself onto one of the huge beds. My head was spinning a bit, and if I closed my eyes, I could see unpleasant colors sliding down behind my eyelids, sickly greens and purples.

  I threw an arm across my eyes. ‘I don’t feel too good.’

  Stuart was perched on the edge of the dressing table, looking down at me. ‘Are you going to be sick?’

  ‘Dunno . . . ’

  ‘Come on.’ He grabbed my hand, pulled me to my feet, and got me to the bathroom. ‘Throw up if you need to. You’ll feel a lot better.’

  I tried to focus on the tiled wall, but it was all slipping and sliding. I grabbed the sink to steady myself. ‘Don’t leave me.’

  ‘It’s OK, Joe. I’m right here.’

  ‘I think I’m gonna . . . ’

  I made it to the toilet just in time, doubling over as a huge wave of liquid ejected itself from my stomach.

  Stuart was there, rubbing my back. ‘That’s it. Come on. Get it all out.’

  More came, and then, when I thought there was nothing left but spit, another tsunami. My eyes felt like they were going to crack, my temples were pounding, sweat pouring off the end of my nose.

  I rolled over, my back against the side of the bath. ‘Shit.’

  ‘Better?’

  ‘Much better. Jesus. I’m a mess.’ But the mist was clearing, and I felt—not exactly sober, I suppose, but no longer pissed.

  ‘You need a shower.’

  ‘I do.’ I got to my feet. There was vomit down my shirt and splashed on my trousers. ‘Oh, fuck.’

  ‘Don’t worry. I’ll rinse them out and shove them in a bag. Come on, get ’em off.’

  I stripped and brushed my teeth while Stuart got the shower ready. Like I said, we’d seen each other naked often enough for it to feel normal—and yet . . . Did I know there was something different this time? Did I undress a little more quickly, more eagerly? And why did I say, ‘You too, mate, you’re sweating like a pig, come on, save water, shower with a friend?’

  And there we were, both naked, in a glass-walled shower cubicle, hot water pounding down on us, steam rising, shouting in pleasure, still half drunk, but now it wasn’t just the booze, it was the intoxication of friendship, of being young and on the brink of change, the old life giving way to the new, and this was our last chance, our last night, and if we didn’t do it now . . .

  I remembered those feelings so clearly.

  I don’t know who started it, how it changed from the usual post-match horseplay to something else. We washed each other’s backs, shoulders, and then went lower, and when I turned round to face him, I was hard, and it was hilarious. ‘Jesus Christ,’ I said, ‘look at that!’ while I grabbed it and pretended I was shooting him with a gun, while both of us laughed. Stuart’s hands nervously soaped his own crotch, and when he moved them away, he was hard too, his cock sticking out absurdly pink and naked from a nest of foam.

  We took hold of each other. There was no point in pretending that this was normal shower behavior. But what the hell? Nobody would know. It was my stag night.

  Our last night.

  We stroked each other’s stiff, slippery cocks, and then came closer, arms around each other, cocks pressed together, hips pumping, faces together, and mouths kissing. This couldn’t be happening, but it was, no point in pretending it wasn’t, we were doing it; perhaps it was what we’d always wanted to do since we first met.

  We avoided each other’s eyes when we got out of the shower, afraid, I suppose, that one of us would say, ‘Hey, that was funny, but now it’s over.’ We dried off quickly in silence and ran to the bedroom, rolling on top of each other, kissing, pressing hard chest to hard chest, hard cock to hard cock. Stuart’s hands ran up and down my back, over my buttocks, pulling me in. And then he went down and took me in his mouth, sucking me while I grabbed his hair, his ears, rubbing, caressing, unable to believe the intensity of the sensation, the feeling that everything had been leading up to this moment for years.

  And then he stopped, and we changed places; he lay back on the bed with his legs apart, and I kneeled and took it in my hand and opened my mouth . . .

  I kissed Stuart’s cock.

  I kissed Bill’s cock, then took the head between my lips, and the past and the present seemed to join at last, and before I could go any further, I realized that I was wanking and it was too late to stop, I was coming, coming all over the carpet and the sofa and Bill’s leg.

  ‘Oh shit,’ I said through a mouthful of cock.

  ‘What? Oh, Christ. You didn’t.’

  I sat back, ashamed of myself. ‘Sorry.’

  Bill’s cock bounced up and down as he laughed. ‘It’s OK. Oh, God, your face.’ He laughed more, slapping his thigh. ‘It’s OK, Jack. It happens. Now, do you want to take care of this?’ He grabbed his rock-hard dick with both hands. ‘Or are you going to make a run for it?’

  Basic manners struggled with my growing urge to flee. I couldn’t just leave now, could I? But I wanted to. I wanted to get dressed and pretend that nothing had happened. Bill was doing a two-handed wank, and I could still see the top. I might never get a chance like this again, and despite my post-orgasmic remorse, basic curiosity was getting the better of me. What would it look like when he came? Would he shoot more than me? Would his huge balls get tight against his body? How would it feel to hold another man’s cock while it was shooting?

  I wavered for a moment, watching like a rabbit hypnotized by a snake.

  ‘You can touch it, you know.’

  And I suppose that was the moment when the balance of my life tipped, and I became what I am now. I don’t know what the right label is, but if I’d walked out of Bill’s house at that moment, it would have been a different one. Instead I reached out, caressed his balls, and then got to work on his cock. I felt its hardness, its girth, and when feeling it wasn’t enough, I licked it, running my tongue along the underside all the way up to the head.

  ‘Suck me.’

  ‘I don’t know if I can.’

  ‘Well have a go. Nothing turns me on like seeing a straight guy trying to take my cock in. Come on.’

  I took the first couple of inches in my mouth and wanked the rest of it. Bill stroked my head and kept up a string of encouraging endearments, most of them containing the words ‘straight’ or ‘married.’ My lips went a little further down his shaft each time, until I was sucking about half of him. I wanted to go further, to take him all. I was even starting to get hard again, thinking about what I was doing, on my knees taking another man’s cock in my mouth, serving him, submitting to him.

  ‘I’m going to come.’

  He pulled out of my mouth, grabbed his dick, and started shooting. It happened very quickly—all I could do was watch as his big load pumped out onto his stomach.

  ‘Fuck, that was good.’ He reached for tissues and wiped up. ‘You OK?’ I was wanking again, and ready to go for round two, but my host was already pulling his shorts up.

  ‘Fine. You’re . . . amazing.’
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  ‘Thank you. Next time we’ll have to plan things a bit better.’

  ‘Er . . . ’

  ‘If there is a next time, I mean. If you want to go a bit further.’

  Remember, I was horny again, so I said, ‘Yeah. I really want to. What I mean is . . . ’

  ‘What can we do? Anything you want. I really like you. You’re fucking hot.’ His cock disappeared inside his clothes. ‘I’ll teach you how to suck cock properly. Or I’ll fuck you if that’s what you want.’

  ‘Yeah.’ My cock was hard again. ‘I want it.’

  ‘So I see. You’ll make a good sub.’

  ‘It’s what I want.’

  ‘Perhaps we should dress you up a bit next time. Just to put you in your place.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Hey, look, I’ll email you some ideas. That OK? You just let me know tomorrow if you still want to do this. I know a lot of straight guys get cold feet after the first time.’

  ‘Not me.’

  ‘Tell me when that’s gone down.’ He nudged my cock with his foot. ‘And if you’re still up for it, you know where to find me. I’ll send you instructions and see if you can do as you’re told.’

  ‘I can.’

  ‘Good to know. Now get dressed and get out of here. I’ve got work to do.’

  ‘And I’ve got to get home to my wife.’

  Bill grabbed me, kissed me hard on the mouth, and squeezed my cock. ‘You’re going to be mine, straight boy.’

  Being straight, even when you’ve just had a cock in your mouth and agreed to take one up your arse, was obviously an advantage in the world I was entering.

  4

  BILL’S INSTRUCTIONS WERE QUITE EXPLICIT: ‘GO OUT SHOPPING and buy yourself women’s underwear—knickers, tights, stockings—black or white, sheer. Wear them under your regular clothes next time you come to see me. Prove to me that you’re a real sub.’

  I’ve never been interested in women’s underwear except on a woman, and it’s never featured particularly in my married life. Of course, I enjoy a photograph of a sexy woman in lingerie as much as the next straight man, but I’ve never thought about wearing it myself.

  So why was I standing in the women’s underwear department of Marks and Spencer with a hard-on as I selected garments to wear for my next assignation with Bill?

  The woman at the checkout approved of my choices. ‘Oh, these are lovely,’ she said of the little black lace-trimmed panties with bows at the hips. ‘She’ll love these.’ She looked up at me. ‘I wish someone would buy me nice underwear.’

  ‘Oh, well,’ I said, certain that guilt was written all over my face as I fumbled for my card. I paid and beat a hasty retreat, the almost weightless package stuffed into my briefcase. I shoved it to the back of my sweater drawer when I got home and forgot about it. My next date with Bill wasn’t for a while, and during that time, I promised myself, I was going to live a blameless life. I worked hard, I went to the gym, I said hi to Adrian and even to Michael. I spent time with my son, watching movies and playing on the Xbox. I spoke to my daughter on the phone, asking her about university life, finding out that she had a new boyfriend called Paul ‘who is great, I can’t wait to bring him home, I think you’ll really like him.’ I tried, whenever possible, to have dinner with my wife. But she was busy—work things, social things, evening classes, lectures, a spa weekend.

  I got home on Thursday evening. Alex was out, and Angie was sitting at the kitchen table with a cold cup of tea in front of her.

  ‘Hi darling.’

  No response. I went to kiss her. She flinched.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  She looked me straight in the eyes but said nothing.

  ‘Angie? Has something happened?’ My immediate fear was that one of the kids was in trouble—hurt, sick, or dead. ‘Talk to me.’

  ‘Joe.’ Her voice was flat.

  ‘Yes?’ How has she found out? Who has told her? Michael? Bill? Has one of Pete’s photographs leaked? Oh Christ, what about Stuart, after all these years? Has he turned up unexpectedly?

  ‘Are you having an affair?’

  Well, that was easy to answer. ‘No. Of course not.’

  ‘Then how do you explain this?’ She put the Marks and Spencer bag on the table. Such a little thing. Almost weightless. ‘And don’t try saying that it’s for me. You’ve never bought me lingerie in your life.’

  ‘It’s, it’s . . . ’ It’s for me to wear so that some bloke I met on Craigslist will fuck me. ‘OK. It’s for someone at work. It’s a sort of joke. We went out for a drink and he had a bit too much and he admitted he’d always been interested in, you know, dressing up. I was going to leave it in his desk, anonymously, and see what happened. I forgot all about it.’ I shrugged. ‘I know. It’s childish.’

  ‘Is that the best you can do?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Men don’t buy lingerie just to play a joke on a colleague.’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘Men buy lingerie for their mistresses.’

  This was so fundamentally wrong that I couldn’t help laughing. ‘Mistresses? God, Angie, you are barking up the wrong tree. I’m not having an affair. I don’t have a mistress.’

  ‘I don’t believe you.’

  The coast was clear—nothing had really gone wrong, she hadn’t found out. ‘Look at the size, Angie. But believe what you want. If you don’t trust me anymore, then our relationship is over.’

  ‘That’s not what I mean.’

  ‘Yes it is. You think I’m seeing another woman, and when I tell you I’m not, you don’t believe me. That sounds like you don’t trust me.’

  ‘Joe, for God’s sake. What am I supposed to think?’

  ‘Quite honestly, I don’t care. I’m going out. And that,’ I said, grabbing the bag and chucking it in the bin, ‘can go in there.’

  ‘Joe, please.’

  I should have sat down and talked things over. Maybe we could have saved our marriage. Angie was suspicious—I was too, if it came to it. She was spending so much time away from home she could be maintaining a string of lovers. Instead, with a feeling of elation, I put my coat on, picked up my wallet, and slammed the front door behind me.

  I had a free evening, and I was the injured party here—wasn’t I? I felt like I was, and that’s the same thing. So I was damn well going to do what I pleased.

  What I really wanted was to see Bill and continue my training, but it was impossible to arrange a visit at such short notice. I’m sure there are ways and means of getting laid within minutes wherever you happen to be, but the only thing I could think of was a sauna that I happened to know of, about half an hour’s drive away. How did I know about it—me, a married man with two kids? Well, I’ve been on the right websites, of course. I’m sure I’m not the only straight guy who likes to know what his options are, who thinks about them when he wanks but does nothing about them. Except in my case, stung into action by my near discovery and miraculous escape, I was going to act. Reckless, risky, stupid, and my cock was hard by the time I got into third gear. What did I think would happen? I don’t know. I’d just look and be looked at, maybe have a wank, maybe have a nice refreshing sauna, you never know. I needed to get away from home. A crisis was approaching—I could hear it coming, like a train way up the track—every little sound or alarm could be the big one. I’d narrowly missed discovery; maybe Angie thinks I’m screwing other women behind her back, which plenty of our friends have done, and considering we no longer have sex, she must have been expecting this for some time. Would I really be so stupid as to buy lingerie for a mistress and leave it to be discovered? Of course not. And what was she doing rooting around in my drawers anyway? Is she suspicious? Is she hacking into my email account, looking at my phone? She won’t find anything. The email account I use for Craigslist is so heavily password-protected that even Alan Turing couldn’t crack it; all she’ll find on my regular email is work stuff and family stuff. I’m in the clear, an
d so confident that I’m actually feeling indignant that she went looking for evidence in the first place.

  And here we are, in the middle of an industrial estate in outer London, off the main road, down a slip road, up a street that looks like it goes nowhere, but there’s a blue neon glow up ahead and, as the website promised, ‘ample parking,’ so I pull up and switch off. The Thames Sauna: ‘traditional steam baths, dry sauna, plunge pool, and treatments’ according to the information. Mixed at weekends. Women only on Tuesday. Men only the rest of the week. And what do you know, this is a Thursday, as it happens. But it’s not a gay venue. It says so on the website: ‘This is not a gay venue. Inappropriate behavior will not be tolerated. The management reserves the right . . . ’ and so on.

  See? Not a gay venue. And I’m a married man. Married to a woman who thinks I’m screwing another woman. Father of two, whose photos I have in my wallet and on my phone. I play football, I go to the gym, I drink beer with the lads, and I say ‘mate’ a lot. I have muscles and hair on my body, and if I use a trimmer to keep it neat, that means nothing these days. I’m Joe Heath. Ask anyone, they’ll tell you what I’m like. And if I’m going to the Thames Sauna on a Thursday, it can only be because I’ve overdone it at the gym and need to ease my muscles.

  OK?

  Yes, I am slightly erect. It’s only natural. My missus doesn’t oblige any more.

  Nobody knows that the last time I came, I was on my knees with a cock in my mouth, remembering another time, twenty years ago, when my best man and I were drunk.

  Stuart. Whatever happened to Stuart? We hardly saw each other after I got married. Only natural—it happens to the best of friends. I had a wife and kids now, and he had his own life; we drifted apart, Christmas cards, the occasional email, but after that, nothing.

  He’d be easy to find of course. Maybe I should look him up for old times’ sake. Pick up where we left off, tell him about my marital problems. Tell him more, maybe. Confess it all. Get back to where we were on the stag night, see where it takes us.

  This wouldn’t do. I was nearly fully hard, and I hadn’t even got as far as the reception desk. I adjusted myself, paid my money, and got my towels and locker key. The guy at the desk barely looked at me.