Richard the Third
—another patient of the Shakespeare optical practice
Hi, my name is Richard; I’m called after my father, and he’s called after his father, so Grandad is Richard Senior, Dad is Richard Junior I’m Richard III! I have a thing for guys in glasses; always have had. You could say I was a gay glasses fetishist long before I knew I was gay, or that there was such a thing as being gay. Even as a very small boy I found my dad’s glasses interesting, not to say fascinating, not to say arousing! Dad and Grandad were the first glasses wearers I knew, and for a long time the only ones; we’re all long-sighted so I guess it’s a genetic thing. When I did meet other people with glasses, it just so happened that they were all men, and I developed a subconscious association between wearing glasses and being male—and to this day my subconscious prefers not to be confused with facts, thank you very much. To me, glasses are a man’s thing.
When I was small, Dad used to give me my bath, and I loved that because I adored my dad. But his glasses would steam up and he’d have to take them off and wipe them. When he did that my little willy would twitch in excitement; but he couldn’t see that without his strong plus lenses. He always washed my private parts carefully, soaping his hands and rubbing me. I loved the feeling that gave me, and, young as I was, I would get a little baby erection. I sometimes wonder if Dad enjoyed feeling my little cock get hard in his hand. If he did some folks would call it child abuse—what nonsense; I loved it ’cause I loved him!
As a small boy I was an avid reader; I learned quickly and read everything I could find. If I could understand it, I read it: comics, children’s books, magazines. The Narnia books were meat and drink to me, and if Harry Potter had been thought of I’d have devoured those books too. As you can imagine, I did well at my First School and was considered an outstanding pupil.
As I progressed through Middle School, reading became less of a delight and more of a chore; by the end of the day my head would be starting to ache and my eyes would be burning. My homework suffered: I read what I needed to, but absorbing the content was another matter, and my school results suffered, not too much, but just a bit. As for reading in bed for pleasure, that was a thing of the past.
It was in the holidays before my last term in Middle School that Grandma (my dad’s mother) came on one of her visits. I was trying to read one of the books I needed to be familiar with, and making pretty heavy weather of it. Grandma must have been watching me, because she suddenly said to my mother, “I think you should take that boy for an eye test! He’s struggling with that book, just like his father did at that age. His first glasses made all the difference, and I think you’ll find young Richard goes the same way.” My parents conferred, I guess, and an appointment was made for me to see an optometrist early the next Saturday morning. Dad would take me; after all he was an experienced glasses wearer.
Of course I knew what to expect, some of it anyway: I was going to get glasses and be like Dad, and I was really pleased about that. I didn’t know one optician from another, but if Dad said Shakespeare’s was the place to go, that was OK by me.
At Shakespeare’s Dad introduced me to a fair-haired man called Frank; he got me to look into a machine that clicked a few times and then spat out a piece of paper. He looked at it and said, “Right!” I had to wait a few minutes and then I was shown into a dark room where I met a tall man with dark hair. He introduced himself: “Hello Richard; I'm Dr Marlow. My job is to test your eyes and then we’ll know whether you need glasses and how strong they need to be if you do. Will you just sit up here?” He looked at the slip of paper Frank had given him and then took an instrument and shone a light into my eyes, first the right, then the left. “Well now,” he said, “I can see you’re quite long-sighted, and Frank’s autorefractor reading says the same. I shall definitely be prescribing glasses for you; what we have to do now is get the strength right.” Nobody who’s reading this needs a blow-by-blow account of an eye test, but there were one or two things that (I discovered later) don't always happen. For one thing Dr Marlow announced he was going to put drops in my eyes to be sure of getting the right result. “You won't be able to see clearly for a couple of hours, but if you come back at twelve you'll be back to normal and I'll be able to run another check. Then you can choose your frames and we can still have your glasses ready for you after lunch.” The morning dragged along—it was a bore not being able to see properly, so there wasn’t much point in doing any of the things I usually enjoyed on outings with Dad, but we sat in a café for a while and then wandered round the park. Twelve o’clock saw me back in Dr Marlow's consulting room, where he tried various lenses in front of my eyes and then wrote a prescription: right +3.00, left +2.75; but before he handed it to me he gave me some important advice: “Richard, as I said before you are quite long-sighted, and one day you’ll have to wear glasses full time. You aren’t at that stage yet; your glasses will make reading and close work a lot easier, but at first things in the distance won’t be very clear when you’re wearing them. In spite of that I want you to wear them full time for the first few weeks, so that you can learn to see properly through them. After that you can wear them as often as you feel the need. So here’s your prescription; go and find a frame you like.” I walked out into the daylight with the script in my hand—and in my pants such an erection as I’d never felt before. All through the test I’d been aware of a tingling in my groin; but when Dr Marlow confirmed that I needed glasses, and rather strong ones at that, my member sprang to attention…it was just as well I’d put on baggy tracksuit bottoms that morning!
The next step was to choose frames, and I thought I knew what I wanted. When Dad asked I said, “Dad, can I have frames like yours?” “Like mine? Do you really think they would suit you?” “Well, don’t you, Dad?” “Honestly, son, I think they’d look a bit odd on a teenager. You can try them and if you like them I suppose you can have them, but I was thinking of frames more like the ones I had when I was your age. Let’s go and see what there is.”
I was taken aback by the variety of frames. Dad led me first to a range of frames like his—heavy plastic—and I had to admit he was right; they looked weird on me. “OK Dad,” I said; “what kind of frames do you think I should get?” “Well,” he said, “when I was your age John Lennon was all the rage, and round wire frames like his were popular. My first pair looked like one of these.” We moved to that selection of frames, and I tried a few; I wasn’t too sure, but in the end I opted for a plain round white wire frame with the kind of arms that curved round my ears to keep the specs fairly secure. I know now it was all fairly reminiscent of John Lennon. Frank, who had been hovering, approved and promised to have them ready by half past two. So Dad took me to a pub (the first time I’d been in one) where we had steak and kidney pudding and chips and I drank lemonade while Dad had a pint of beer. All through lunch my erection bothered me, but at least it wasn’t obvious.
Back to Shakespeare’s, where Frank produced my glasses, tried them on me, took them off and fiddled with them, put them back on me and let me look in a mirror. Gosh, my eyes looked big, and gosh, my dick was hard, harder than ever! I thanked my stars again for my baggy pants on the way home, and when Mum had duly admired my glasses I was able to escape to my room, where I got my aching dick out and pretty soon had my first deliberate orgasm.
Each morning from then on the same thing happened: when I got up and put my glasses on my dick sprang to attention, and there was only one way to calm it down. A wank became part of my morning routine, and quite an enjoyable one at that.
By the end of the holidays I was used to my glasses and could see pretty well at all distances, far as well as near; and on the first morning of the new term I got up bright and early, put my glasses on, jerked myself off, got myself ready, and set off for school, proudly bespectacled. By the time school started I wasn’t so happy, and by lunchtime I was pretty fed-up. Strange as it may seem, at that time there wasn’t another kid in the school who wore glasses, so mine were the centre of attention and I was being mocked right, left and centre. My pleasure in wearing glasses like Dad, not to mention being free of eyestrain, was marred, to say the least, by being addressed by all and sundry as ‘Specky’ or ‘Foureyes’. I chuntered about this to Dad that evening. “Don’t let it bother you, son,” he advised. “Within a week they’ll have forgotten they ever saw you without glasses—and I’ll bet within a year another half-dozen of your class will get them too. Most people’s eye problems start at your age—mine certainly did.”
Well, Dad was wrong. I had hoped my glasses would be a nine days’ wonder, but the name-calling continued all that term, and occasionally the class bullies would snatch my glasses and hide them. This wasn’t as much of a problem as you might think: if I concentrated hard I could still read, and my specs always turned up by the end of the day. I was defiant; but defiance was a bit wearing, and as the time came for a move to High School I began to think I could do without more of the same, and had another go at reading without my glasses. I found I could manage without the headache becoming intolerable, and decided to go to school without my glasses and just use them at home. This worked reasonably well: I told my folks what I was doing, went without specs all day, and after school put them on with rather more than a sigh of relief—by this time my head was usually splitting and I was desperate to get my glasses on. The erection and the means of dealing with it became an evening event. As it happened, nobody from my middle school went to the same high school; my parents wanted to send me to a Church of England High School, and I wanted to go there too; but because of the distance that school wasn’t so popular in our district; so there was nobody at the new school who remembered me as a specky foureyes.
During the Easter holidays I had a card from Shakespeare’s reminding me it was time for another eye test, and made an appointment to see Dr Marlow again. He repeated the tests he’d done a year ago (no drops this time, thank goodness!) and said, “Well Richard, I’m increasing your prescription; but we've still a bit to go before we get to your final prescription. Tell me though: how much are you wearing your glasses?” “Well,” I said, “I wear them in the evening for homework, but I do without them in school; I got so much stick about them in Middle School I decided keep them secret.” “OK,” he said. "Good luck to you as long you can manage that way. But the time will come when you can’t.”
When I'd put my glasses back on, I looked at the prescription: right +3.75; left +3.50. When it came to choosing frames, I pondered for a minute. I liked the frames I had even if nobody else did and, as Harry Potter had appeared on the literary scene, something very like theem had become ‘cool’ but still quite cheap. In any case, as I still wore glasses only in the evenings, for homework, nobody was going to see them; so I went for a similar frame again, but this time with black plastic covering the wire fronts. I collected them later that day, took them home and followed the usual sequence: upstairs, specs on, hard on, jerk off, homework. After a day’s school work my head was starting to ache and my eyes to burn, and I’d found that once my glasses were on taking them off meant a splitting headache in next to no time, so I kept them on till bedtime. Back at school when term started, my specs remained a secret, but I was beginning to wonder how long I could keep that up: going without them was getting to be more of a problem as it seemed the daily headache came on earlier every week. The prospect of having to use them was less of a threat than it might have been as there were other glasses wearers in the school, though there were none in my class…I used to study the good-looking guys and try to imagine them in glasses: what kind of lenses would they need? What kind of frames would they choose? I had most fun visualizing a guy called Clive; he was tall and fair, with brown eyes; I really fancied him, and a mental picture of him in bold black plastic frames was good for an occasional orgasm.
One evening that term I was at home on my own: my folks had gone out, I’d finished my homework and I was amusing myself playing Patience on the computer when the doorbell rang. I went to answer it, completely forgetting I was still wearing my glasses, and who should be on the doorstep but Clive? He’d come to pick my brains about a piece of work we had to do, but his first words were, “Hey, nice glasses; when did you get them?” “I’ve had them a good while,” I said, “but I got picked on about them at my last school and decided I’d only wear them at home.” “Pity, they look good. My brother had to get glasses last month; he’s short-sighted. My folks took me for a test as well and the guy said I don’t need them, but not to be surprised if in a year or two I start to get trouble seeing things in the distance, same as him.” We sorted out his problem with the homework, and then had a cold drink, sitting on the sofa. After a while Clive said, “Tell you what, man; you’re fucking hot in specs!” and put his hand on my crotch. Of course my dick sprang to attention at once, and he proceeded to unzip my fly and jerk me off. I responded in kind, and that’s how I had my first homosexual experience. We ended the session with a long kiss, and Clive was just leaving when my folks arrived home.
After that I did something I’d never done before: in middle school I’d been a full time wearer, and in high school I’d left them at home by my bed. Now I found the case they’d given me with my glasses, put them in it, and carried the case to school in my pocket. I didn’t put them on in class right away, but before long I started to do that too as the day wore on and I started to feel the strain. After all, Clive had said I was hot in them, and by this time I wasn’t the only specky guy in the school, though I was the first in our class. In the slightly more adult environment of High School, there was no mockery. Two or three guys asked to try my glasses, and usual response was, “You must be fucking blind!” I realized that they were pretty strong.
One day a few weeks later I went for a pee at the end of the school day, and Clive followed me into the bog. There was no one else around, and he said, “Have you got your specs?” “Yes, I always keep them handy these days.” “Put them on for me. Please.” I obliged, and he gave me, first a l-o-n-g kiss, and then my first ever blow job. I went home bareyed again, but ecstatic; and from then on Clive and I would have the occasional amorous session, not as often as I’d have liked, but just often enough to keep me from giving up hope. Eventually we got into the habit of going off together after classes on Thursdays; sometimes we went to the bogs, but more often to the shrubbery or behind the bike sheds, with the invariable invitation “Got your specs?” One week, however, it was Wednesday when Clive led me off behind the bike sheds. When we’d had our bit of fun, he said, “I shan’t have time for this tomorrow; I’m going for another eye test.” “An eye test? Will you be getting glasses?” (My dick had sprung to attention again at the very thought.) “Don’t know. My brother needs stronger specs before he can start driving lessons, and my folks think I should get tested as well. I don’t think I need them, but then my brother didn’t think he did. I wouldn’t mind if I had to get them, and I guess it’d be nice for you if I did.” “Ohh, yes, it certainly would!”
All day Thursday and all night too I was on tenterhooks, imagining Clive in glasses; every time I closed my eyes I had a vision of him in a different frame: preppy ones like mine, rimless, heavy black plastic, and so on. If he got glasses would they be ready right away? Would he come into school on Friday wearing them? My dick was sore with jerking off.
Friday came, and Clive arrived at school bareyed as usual. Come the morning break, I managed to get him alone and ask about his eye test. “Apparently I’m very slightly short-sighted but not enough to need glasses yet. I need to get a test every year, and sooner if I start getting problems.”
As the next year went on I started to find school work without glasses more uncomfortable; and as two or three other members of the class had started to wear them I decided I really needed them in every class. One afternoon when I put them on in the French class Clive and I were sitting together at the back of the room and I happened to be looking at him (nothing unusual about that!) and saw, what I wouldn’t have seen without my glasses, that he gave a great squint when he looked at the board. My dick sprang to attention at once, and from then on, I decided, I was going to wear my glasses whenever he and I were in class together. I discovered he only squinted when he was sitting at the back, and not always then. In any case he usually took a front seat. That first night I lay in bed playing idly with my dick, recalling the sight of Clive squinting at the board and imagining him putting on a pair of glasses…as I drifted into sleep my musings went on into my dreams, and I woke to find I’d come in my pants. After that I made sure I jerked off every night as a precaution against wet dreams. Sometimes I imagined him putting on preppy glasses like mine; other times they were the height of fashion, or rimless; invariably the imagined sight brought me to orgasm.
As time went on Clive seemed to squint more often, or sometimes he peered at his neighbour’s notes (quite often I was the neighbour); and eventually he became a fixture in the front row. I longed to see him arrive at school in glasses; but it never happened and I was denied that thrill, which is probably just as well: his short-sighted squinting invariably brought my dick to attention, so the mind boggles at what would have happened if I’d actually seen him in glasses!
Shortly before the summer holidays Clive and I had one of our amorous sessions behind the bike sheds, and I was putting my glasses away in readiness for the journey home, when he said, “I may not have needed glasses before, but I definitely do now. I can hardly see across a room, let alone a street.” “Oh well,” I said; “when you get them you’ll be as hot as you say I am. Are you going for a test?” “Well, I always used to want to wear specs; when my brother got them I hoped I’d get them too and was as jealous as hell when I didn’t. But now I know I’m going to have to get them I’m not so keen. And the other thing I’ve been meaning to tell you: my Dad’s got a new job and we’re moving right away from here, so I’ll probably go for an eye test when we get to our new place.” “Moving away? How far?” “Oh, right away up North.” “Gosh, I’ll miss you.” “And I’ll miss you.” We gave each other a long kiss.
That was Clive’s last term at our school. After he left we exchanged letters for a while, but in the end the correspondence lapsed. I still missed him, but letters were a poor substitute for actually seeing him, not to mention feeling him!
Year by year and bit by bit Dr Marlow increased my prescription, and at some point I graduated from my Harry Potter specs to oval gold wire frames. Bareyed reading was a thing of the past; I needed my glasses to see anything close up as well as to keep eyestrain at bay. As A-levels approached, with all the extra reading, I found I was getting a lot of headaches and eyestrain, and made another appointment with Dr Marlow. He tested me very thoroughly, far and near vision, and finally said, “Richard, I’m going to put you into bifocals for a while. You really need your full prescription for all the reading you’re doing, but you still can’t manage with it for distance. In another year or two you’ll be able to wear it for all distances: don’t think you’re in bifocals for life; you’ll need them again in another twenty-five or thirty years, but that’s a different story. And I don’t think you can manage much longer without wearing your glasses full time.”
I really felt the benefit of the bifocals, but after a while I experimented with them, and found I could see pretty well in the distance through the reading section. So I made another appointment with Dr Marlow and said I thought I was ready for my full correction. He agreed, and this time I opted for a classic rimless style. I knew I ought to go full time, but I went on wearing my glasses all day in school, putting them away for the journey home, and on again for the evening. If I concentrated hard enough I could still make out where a bus was going, but my unaided vision wasn’t great, even for distant objects. I decided I would carry on as I was till I started university, and then go full time. That way, my new friends and acquaintances would know me as a guy with glasses, and no one would make a great issue of it.
In the end, I suppose I made more of an issue of it than anyone else did. I left home with my bags packed and my glasses in my pocket, and on the train (ignored by the few other passengers in the carriage) I took them out and put them on, formally but silently pronouncing myself a full time glasses wearer from that moment. As I looked out of the train window, I was content with my decision. My distance vision had been steadily deteriorating; now trees, and cows, and buildings were clear and exciting. But, guess what, my old problem recurred: before I could enjoy the view properly I needed relief, for which decency dictated a trip to the toilet.
Life at university was cosmopolitan and exciting; I didn’t have too much trouble keeping up with work, but there were lots of other things to enjoy as well. There was a Gaysoc, of course, but I decided not to get involved with that; it all seemed so deadly earnest, and there were plenty of other ways of enjoying the kind of social life I wanted.
Now that I was wearing my glasses full time I found I was totally dependent on them: when I took them off even my distance vision, which up to then had been, well, just about adequate, was, frankly, crap.
About six weeks into my first term a poster appeared advertising a Gaysoc meeting. The speaker was the well-known gay (and very short-sighted) actor Philip Macbeth, ‘with full supporting cast’ and the subject was ‘Do men make passes at boys who wear glasses?’ In spite of my negative thoughts about the Gaysoc, this sounded like a talk I really wanted to hear, so along I went. There was a good-sized audience assembled in the function room of a pub, and a biggish platform party too: the chairman introduced Will Shakespeare, the ‘boss man’ of the firm where I got my glasses, with a not too subtle hint that Philip Macbeth was his partner in more ways than one, a sleeping partner in the business and another kind of partner in bed! There were two more men on the platform too: a red-haired guy who was introduced as Ben Johnson, and a tall man with the thickest glasses I’d ever seen, and I was really taken aback when the chairman introduced him as Dr Kit Marlow. This was my regular optometrist, but I’d never seen him wearing glasses before; and, although I knew quite well that Shakespeare’s had a certain reputation, he’d never, ever, dropped a spangle with me.
Philip Macbeth began his address by repeating his advertised subject: ‘Do men make passes at boys who wear glasses?’ and then said, “Well, speaking for myself, I don’t make passes at boys without glasses—and there’s a whole lot of other men like me. I had my first real homosexual experience the day I got my first glasses—the Head Boy at stage school said I’d become a ‘sexy spexy guy’; and more than once when Will here fitted me with new glasses, he said, ‘I could eat you in those;’ once he’d broken up with my brother I let him do just that, and here we are, still together after all these years!” So his talk went on sometimes amusing, sometimes moving, sometimes inspiring, sometimes all three. The other men on the panel chipped in with their own stories, mostly to the effect that men DO make passes as boys who wear glasses; and then comments from the floor were invited. There was a guy I liked the look of sitting some distance from me. He had fair hair cut very short, and fair designer stubble. After the discussion had gone on for a bit he stood up. He seemed to be squinting pretty hard at the platform, and I wondered why he wasn’t wearing the glasses he obviously needed. He said, “I’m like a lot of you: I don’t make passes at guys without glasses, and I just want to tell you my story. When I was in high school my big brother started having trouble seeing the TV, and had to get glasses. I was kind of taken with them, and wished I needed them too. I was really pleased when my folks decided I ought to have a test too, but nothing came of it; I wasn’t short-sighted then like I am now. Not long after that I had a problem with a piece of maths homework. There was a guy in my class lived quite close; I kind of, well, you know, liked him, and he was good at maths. So I went round to his house—and I was completely bowled over when he came to the door wearing glasses! They were ordinary Harry Potter-type specs, but the lenses were strong and made his eyes look so big and dreamy (I know now that meant he was long-sighted); I didn’t know where to put myself, but I told him my maths problem, and he helped me sort it out. After that I just couldn’t keep my hands off him, and we had a bit of fun—the first of many. He didn’t wear his glasses in school, not at first anyway, but he always put them on for me and that really turned me on. He would have liked me to wear glasses too, but I still didn’t need them (my folks sent me for another test when my brother needed an increase). By the time I could tell my vision was getting worse my dad had got a new job and we were moving out of London. We lost touch and I don’t know where he is now but I’ve never forgotten him and I wish he could have seen me in my specs, ’cause my eyes have got worse every year.”
I said, rather faintly, “Clive?” and he gave a start, turned and looked my way again and gave the fiercest squint imaginable; then he pulled a pair of glasses out of his shirt pocket and put them on…the frames were rectangular brown plastic and looked superb against his fair hair and complexion; the minus lenses looked quite strong to me (though with my pebble glasses I should talk about anyone else’s lenses being strong!) and my dick sprang to attention again. He got me into focus, and his face lit up: “Richard! Where have you been all my life?” and I found myself being engulfed in a bear hug—and responding in kind.
The audience gave us a standing ovation. When Philip Macbeth managed to make himself heard he said, “I think, and the Chairman says he agrees, that that brings the formal meeting to an end. Let’s relax!”
Before the evening was over Clive and I had both been hugged and kissed by Philip Macbeth, Will Shakespeare, and Dr Marlow, who told me to call him Kit and introduced me to his partner Bruno, who is a dispenser I knew by sight from Shakespeare’s. But the most exciting thing is that that night Clive and I slept together for the first time—but not the last! Five years on we’re living together back in London. Clive’s eyes keep getting worse, and Dr Marlow has put him in bifocals to try to slow down the increases; but he and his brother seem to have inherited a gene for high myopia: Charles is up to -12, and Clive seems to be following: -8 so far. I’m stable at +6.5 right, +6.25 left; but I’m in an insurance scheme that allows me a new pair of specs every two years, so I’m able to ring the changes on styles. Each of us loves the sight of the other in glasses; we aren’t tempted by contact lenses or surgery. We’re happy.