by Jules

I woke up early that Saturday morning, dying for a pee; so I got out of bed carefully and quietly, so as not to disturb the man who’d shared my bed. On Friday evening I’d gone to the Nightingale Club, hoping; and this time I’d been lucky. I could see this guy (Guy turned out to be his name too!) coming on to me; presently he asked me to dance, and we danced—and danced—and danced. At the end of the evening he seemed to want more, and I certainly did, so I asked him back to my flat for a drink. One thing led to another, and finally we got into my bed, which is not a double but wide enough for two, and gently and safely enjoyed each other’s bodies (you can’t be too careful these days, and we both knew that).

Once I was up, my pee had to be followed by a poo, and when that was done it wasn’t so early any more; so I decided to get breakfast for myself and Guy; he was cute, very cute, and I was hoping that if treated him well he’d want to see more of me. I wrapped a towel round my midriff and went into the kitchen. I shook cereal into bowls—no problem; I slotted granary bread into the toaster—no problem; I laid a tray—still no problem. When it came to making coffee, though, I hit a problem: without my glasses I couldn’t see to measure the water into the machine.

I’ve had glasses since my last year at school; when I was working for A-levels, my mother noticed that I was consuming quantities of paracetamol and packed me off to the doctor to investigate the headaches I seemed to get most days. He shone a light into my eyes, chuckled, and ordered an eye test. The optometrist’s verdict was that I was long-sighted with a bit of astigmatism and needed glasses, at least for reading; so I chose a budget frame that (I thought) didn’t make me look too much of a dork. The headaches vanished overnight, and before long I was happily bespectacled quite a lot of the time…even then I was profoundly uninterested in girls, but I hadn’t discovered the attraction of boys—yet! Every year or two I had another eye test, and usually there was a change of prescription. The last time the optometrist had said, “How much do you wear your glasses, Kevin?” My response was, “Well, I put them on to read; but when I think about it I don’t always take them off afterwards; at work I seem to wear them most of the day.” “Television? Cinema?” “Oh yes; I get a headache without them.” “What about driving?” “Oddly enough I always put them on for that.” “I see; well, I’m glad you don’t drive without them, because your vision really isn’t good enough. The time is rapidly approaching when you’ll need them full time; I won’t say it’s here yet, but you ought to be prepared. So, when you choose your frames, bear in mind you may have to be seen in them quite a lot of the time.” I chose quite a smart frame, fashionable but not over the top, and a few days later got word my new specs were ready. They were definitely stronger, and took a bit of getting used to, but I carried on wearing them much as before. Naturally, I always went out on the town bareyed: ‘No one makes passes at boys who wear glasses’, and my unaided vision was good enough to be sure that the guy I’d spent the night with was a real hunk—and he’d been good in bed.

Anyway, I had a problem; almost for the first time, I needed my glasses to see what I was doing, and not just to relieve eyestrain (but then, I realized, they were usually on before I tried to make coffee!); so I tiptoed back into the bedroom and v-e-r-y q-u-i-e-t-l-y, so as not to disturb the beautiful sleeper in the bed, retrieved them from the pocket where I’d stashed them. Back in the kitchen I gave a sigh of relief as the details sprang into focus, and pretty soon the coffee machine was bubbling away. I was looking in the fridge, trying to decide whether to make scrambled eggs, when a voice said, “Well, there’s a sight for sore eyes!” Guy had obviously woken up, what with the movement and the smell of coffee, and was smiling at me through half-closed eyes. He hadn’t put any clothes on at all, and was stark naked. I made to take my glasses off but he said, “No, keep them on; in fact…” he disappeared and a after a couple of minutes reappeared, and this time he was wearing glasses too, just as fashionable as mine, but quite different. “Hope you don’t mind,” he said, “But if you can see me I want to see you too.” “Right!” I said, a bit nonplussed; “Do you fancy scrambled eggs?” “Hmm; I’ll tell you what I really fancy…” His meaning was obvious; he took me in his arms and kissed me; the kiss went on, and on, and on, and my erection soon matched his. With a flick of the wrist he loosened my towel and we were naked together, wearing nothing but our glasses. “Come on,” he whispered; “let’s go back to bed.”

Once again the sex was sensational. This time we both kept our glasses on throughout. This helped me a bit, but it seemed to delight Guy. “Hey,” he whispered as we relaxed afterwards, “I love seeing you properly. Up to eighteen inches everything’s clear, but beyond that things start to blur; I mean, I could see you were a hunk, and when we danced close I could see your face and knew you were a real dish; but, now I know you’re spexy as well as sexy, let me tell you those specs really do something for you—and I don’t just mean improve your vision.” “Well, the same goes for you; you look really good in glasses.” His response was another long kiss, and as we both grew hard again he turned me on my back, lay on top of me, held our two dicks together, and slowly, gently, brought us both off, together. There’s a limit to how much sex you can have in a morning, and we reached saturation point, each enjoying seeing the other clearly, each enjoying seeing the other in glasses. We slept for a while in each other’s arms, and woke up, hungry, around noon. “I could certainly kill some scrambled eggs now,” said Guy, and we got up. The day was warm, and neither of us saw any need for clothes—so it was a naked lunch, or perhaps brunch: cereal, scrambled eggs on toast, some bread pudding that I heated up in the microwave, and a fresh brew of coffee.

Our glasses came off to shower—we were neither of us blind enough to need them for that—and washing one another gently, tenderly, was a wonderfully erotic experience. No more sex though; for the time being we’d both run out of steam, but it was still bliss to be together. When we were dried, Guy said almost sadly, “Time for clothes, I suppose. Are we going back to the club tonight?” “Well, what do you want to do?” “I’d like to go there again and dance with you some more, but I could do with a change of clothes. And if we sleep at my place tonight it’ll be handy for church in the morning.” “You go to church?” “Yes, St Saviour’s.” “Right; I’ve never been there but I’d like to come with you.” “In more ways than one, I take it…and if we get some condoms we can do things tonight that we didn’t risk last night.” “ Oh—darling!” This time I initiated the kiss; as before it went on, and on, and on. Finally Guy said. “Right. Clothes!” We got dressed and went out. Instead of a chemist’s shop or a barber’s, Guy led me to the Grand Hotel and into the Gents’, where he put money in the machine and got some flavoured condoms.

We went to his place and had tea and kissed a bit. Guy wanted to change, and we decided to take another shower together, just for the pleasure of it. We, like, fondled each other after we’d washed, but we still weren’t ready for more sex. What we were ready for was a solid meal, and Guy led me to a pleasant restaurant in the Arcade where we were able to have a pleasant, relaxed dinner, and linger till we were ready for the club. One of the waiters was quite pretty, but above all unbelievably camp. When we got to the point of ordering dessert, there was a name on the menu that didn’t mean anything to us. “Oh,” he lisped, “it’s blackcurrants with ice cream and whipped cream;” then, looking us up and down, added, “VIOLENTLY whipped!” We managed, just, to contain ourselves till he was out of earshot.

Eventually we decided we were ready for the club and the dance floor; it was easy walking distance and we enjoyed a leisurely stroll. As we approached the club I took my glasses off and made to put them away, but Guy said, “No, keep them on. I’m keeping mine on.” “In the club?” “Why not?” “For one thing I don’t believe all that crap about no one makes passes at guys who wear glasses; for another I want to see properly; and for another I’m not interested in attracting anybody except YOU!”

It was our ‘coming out’ as glasses wearers in the club; it was the night I became a full time glasses wearer; and when we got to Guy’s flat and put the flavoured condoms to various good uses, it was also the night we became an item. Which we still are.

Jules December 2007