FEASTING WITH PANTHERS

I: Aidan’s story

I try to stay away from those places. It isn’t my scene, not really; I don’t think it’s right. I don’t even like the smell, though it is a kind of turn-on. It’s asking for trouble—especially for somebody who’s training to be a priest.

I always take my spectacles off before I go in, because—well, you never know. My sight isn’t too bad without them, just bad enough to make the people in there look younger and more attractive. And if there was any trouble it might be better not to be able to see too much detail. And then they say nobody makes passes at guys who wear glasses.

There was no avoiding it this time though, I needed to go. I knew the place had a ‘reputation’, but there was no alternative; the next one was too far away and the pint of beer I’d had an hour ago had decided it was time we parted company. So I parked the car, pocketed my specs, and went in search of relief. The sun was low in the sky, and the lights were dim. When I got to the bottom of the stairs I squinted round. There were two or three guys at the other end. I found a stall, not too near but not too far either, and as I unzipped my fly I noticed that the sanitary ware was real quality stuff: “Doulton, Lambeth”. Relief, as the jet hit the porcelain...I’d finished, I was ready to go, I had nothing to regret. Then a young guy stepped up to the next stall. He stood well back, trying to see what I had in my hand and making sure I could see what he had in his. Oh hell, I was in trouble after all, especially when a sideways glance revealed that he too wore spectacles—for me the biggest turn-on of all. I don’t know why, but that’s the way it’s always been. I couldn’t help it, I took another look. Round wire frames; lenses stronger than mine—but, judging by the way he was squinting down at me, not strong enough…and there was what looked to my bareyed squinting like a black eye. There it was, I was lost; there was no way I could zip up my fly till I’d got rid of what was bothering me, so I leaned forward into the stall and got to work. The touch of a hand on my backside made me jump, and a husky voice said, “Don't waste it, come with me.” “What d'you mean?” I stammered. “Come on,” he whispered. “A blow job’s better than a wank any day.” I tried to resist, but his grip on my arm was firm. I was guided into a cubicle, and the door was shut behind us. There wasn’t much room, but he manoeuvred me on to the seat and began to look me up and down short-sightedly. “Sorry dear,” he said; “I can’t see you very well; I made a pass at a guy last night and he knocked me down and broke my glasses. I needed new ones anyway and these are about four years old—but hey, I like you!” I had to admit to myself that even with the black eye he wasn’t bad looking; and, close as he was, he smelled clean and fresh. But he was fingering the side of my nose, and squinting at the pressure marks. “Hey—you wear glasses!” “Yes, usually.” “Put them on for me. Please.” What was this? Another guy with tastes like mine? I felt in my shirt pocket for my spectacles—gunmetal, semi-rimless, low minus—and slipped them on. “Aahhh, that's what I like to see!” said my companion; “definitely a sexy spexy guy!” and before I knew what was happening he was on his knees in front of me, my manhood was in his mouth, he was squinting up at me—a fierce squint to get my face in focus. When I felt his tongue caressing my erection, there was a mighty surge of adrenalin and—which of my friends would have recognized the mousy, short-sighted theological student they know in the stud who was thrusting in and out of the guy’s mouth? Although I was obviously in the hands, or rather the mouth, of a master of the noble art of fellatio there was no way I could hold out long. It felt like about thirty seconds before the explosion; he swallowed the lot with a gulp and stood up. “Shall I do the same for you?” I whispered. “No, you mustn’t, I’m positive! Just jerk me off.” His fly was still open, his member at the ready and no knickers in the way; the business was easy and short, but he seemed to enjoy the orgasm. I leaned over and our spectacles tangled as I kissed him on the lips. He gave a start: “I don’t usually do that—but it’s nice!”

We made ourselves decent, and I gave him another, longer kiss. We both shed a few tears and then made our escape. I wondered if I’d ever see him again; it didn’t seem likely. I thought sadly of the maxim, ‘if you can’t be good be careful and if you can’t be careful don’t tell him your name.’

And then—oh heck! I’d have to go to confession after all. I hoped the curate would be on duty; he was more understanding than the vicar, who’d been known to give the Stations of the Cross as a penance.

P.S. I was out of luck.