Memoirs of a Quiet Man
A Sketch
by Jack Kendle, writing as Jan Kledeck
Based on fact. Names and locations have been changed to protect the identities of those unwitting participants in this 'confessional'. Although there are a few, a very few, scenes of same-sex interaction, this is not a piece of 'sexsational friction.' If that is what you are looking for, then you need read no further.
The young man takes his usual seat in front of my desk.
It is Wednesday and this is his private lesson, which I had arranged so that we could be alone together in my classroom. We only have one half-hour session a week - a precious half-hour, which I eagerly anticipate during the six days preceding.
Perhaps I should provide some background.
This young man - well, he's just a boy really, he's only just turned sixteen - has been learning music theory with me since he was about nine years old or so. I have watched him grow from a sweet little quiet, shy blond-haired boy to a long, lanky teen, almost a head taller than I.
I have followed his journey through puberty; noted the first time he has shaved; seen how his figure has become leaner, more defined, noted when his voice broke from a sweet treble to a light baritone. Last but certainly not least, I have been delighted by the development of his crotch area, especially since he started wearing those fashionable, tight black denim hipsters.
Like all handsome teen youths, he is well aware of his good looks and (compared to mine), his generous endowment and he obviously feels at ease wearing those tight trousers. I have sometimes wondered whether he dresses like that for my benefit, it would be nice to think so, but who am I kidding? Just like the teenage girls when they develop breasts, he is proud of his burgeoning adulthood and in the unsubtle way that teenagers have, he is certainly not shy about showing himself off to his best advantage!
I just enjoy the view. So much nicer and more flattering than those hideous baggy trousers, made fashionable by rappers. The only redeeming feature of those garments, for me at least, is the fact that they are worn low-slung, half way down the buttocks, giving tantalising glimpses of jockey shorts and sometimes an arsecrack outlined beneath the stretched material, but otherwise utterly disfiguring and quite unflattering.
I am aged fifty-six - forty years his senior and ever since he entered puberty, I have fantasised about him. I freely admit - well here anyway, that I am attracted to teen boys and through the years have had some intense crushes on some of my young pupils, but of course, never acted on my impulses. Look, but don't touch.
I have, on one or two occasions, with a couple of particularly gorgeous specimens of teen boyhood, got dangerously close to showing my hand and crossing that invisible line - but, thank God, I've managed to avoid it.
So far.
It has led to a very frustrating life, made all the more difficult and complicated by the fact that I am married.
A gay boylover, living a secret life of hidden lusts, private passions, unable to do anything about my situation.
All this inner tension has, I'm sure, has taken its toll on my health. I suffer from diabetes type two, arthritis, as well as high blood pressure and raised cholesterol levels.
I knew I was gay when I got married; I was naïve enough to think I could be cured and could live the life of a 'normal' heterosexual man, with 24/7 access to straight sex.
Wrong!
I remember weeping on my wedding-night with the shocking realisation of what I had done. I had effectively ended my life and have spent the last twenty-or-so years trapped in this relationship, made commitments, not only financial but also by siring a child (a daughter, whom I must stress, I love dearly) - and too much of a coward to come out in the open and make a break, start afresh.
Admit to myself and the world who I am.
It will never happen.
I will forever live in the covert, twilight world of the closeted gay. Never able to be open and honest. Never able to actively seek out a partner, bound to a lifetime of silence, worse by far than any Trappist monk, because at least they have a God who supports them, gives a point to their self-imposed vows of silence.
Not only gay. Worse! I am only attracted to boys. Boys from the age of about twelve. I love their humour, their slim torsos, lanky legs. Up to the age of nineteen or so, the more youthful-looking the better it is for me. Energetic boys, unkempt, sometimes with the awkwardness of adolescence. They make me smile, they are cheeky, make bad jokes, laugh at my bad jokes. Wide-eyed, grinning, always trying to get out of assignments that I set them. I humour them and I think they also humour me.
Not like the girls whom I have taught. They are either serious and studious, or else just plain grumpy. Most boys seem to handle the angst of puberty better than girls. It hits them later. They are content with a football or a PlayStation. Girls take it harder and can be very defensive, moody and even downright rude. As if they were practising for married life.
So I look at these lovely specimens of boyhood and dream.
Let's face it: I am a coward and also, to make matters worse, I live in a small community. How I've managed to keep my real self a secret often even takes me by surprise. All I know is, that if it did become known that I was not only gay, but married and attracted to teen boys, I would be done for. Finished. I would have to leave the community where I have been for the past thirty years and become a hated and despised outcast.
God forbid that I should ever get caught making improper advances towards a teen boy. My world would be turned upside down and I know that I would never be able to survive that.
Suffer in silence, bite the bullet.
Admittedly, my situation has been greatly alleviated by the Internet and the World-Wide Web.
People of my generation did not grow up with computers; our sexual explorations were done via sleazy bookshops, hearsay, smutty jokes and dirty talk behind the bicycle sheds - and always pretending to be straight.
The Internet gave me access to the world 'out there' and I realised that I was not alone - there were others like me. That fact alone gave me great comfort. I wasn't such a freak - shit happened to others as well as me.
When younger, I was always on the defensive; always scared that my filthy little secret would be discovered. Trying not to stare too openly at the other boys in the changing-rooms at P.E. Joining in with the other 'lads' who hounded some poor kid for being different. I wonder now, how many of those bullies at school were only masquerading in order to cover up their own insecurities about their sexuality? I bet there were a few such boys in my school.
I kept my head down at school. A bright, but not an exceptional student, I found that being the class fool usually kept me relatively popular; I was the one who made the cheeky comments, played the idiot and got punished for it. I put up with it, because it meant that I was 'alright' in the other boys' eyes; I was a bit of a joker.
Even when I started learning the violin at school, I was more-or-less left alone, although some boys referred to me as 'that pouf' - but it didn't go further than that. No beatings-up or heads down the toilets at school, which was a minor miracle in itself, considering how cruel kids are to those whom they perceive as 'different'. I put up with my nickname of 'klepto' - because of my foreign name - in fact it gave me a bit of kudos, especially when I did occasionally manage to nick sweets or ciggies from the local sweetshop. Bribing my way to popularity through stolen goods.
And when my violin playing won the House competition one year, it was suddenly 'alright' to play a musical instrument. The sporty jocks had to admit it and, with that, I gained a bit more 'street-cred' at school.
I certainly had my crushes back then; a couple of boys in my form whom I found myself unaccountably attracted to; I wasn't even sure at that age whether it was sexual or just hero-worship. A couple of the senior boys, too, the Captain of the School Cricket XI was, in my eyes, the ultimate in perfection; tall, ruddy complexion, piercing blue eyes, lean, fit and with the grace and looks of a Greek god.
I was a late developer, my growth spurt came late and I sang treble in the school choir much longer than my contemporaries, who progressed into the tenors or basses, with (to my ears at any rate) honeyed voices, whilst I was still a piping boy soprano.
I particularly recall, at our annual medical, the school doctor saying 'what a shrimp I was' and did I consider having hormone treatment? I had no idea what he was talking about and stammered something like, "No, sir, thanks all the same, sir."
I now wish he had explained it better to me. Perhaps I would have done it. All my life I have been miserable about the tiny size of my penis. As a teen, I cursed my Maker and later, after I had ousted any notion of a Supreme Being from my existence, Nature, for making me queer but not giving me respectable tackle.
I felt cheated and mocked.
When I look at images of teen boys on my favourite sites on the Internet, I envy the well-endowed teens that are many times larger than I in the cock department. Who wants to have sex with a guy who has hardly anything between his legs?
Even my first, heterosexual fumblings were an embarrassment and I remember being deeply hurt by the looks of pity those couple of girls gave me. Adding injury to insult, if I may misquote, I even got the clap from one of them!
I led a very sheltered life, I suppose. I went to an all-boys school and wasn't exposed to the opposite sex until well into my teens. I had 'urges' - as all boys do, but it took me a long time, especially by today's standards, to work out how to deal with an erection. But when I did, then I was wanking two, three, four times a day! Making up for lost time, I suppose.
Nowadays, alas, my fifty six years, combined with the assortment of medications I need to take for my various conditions means that my pathetic cock can't get properly hard and then won't maintain any sort of erection and my solitary self-pleasuring ends with a pathetic dribble rather than the powerful orgasms of my teenage years. Sic transit.
When I was about twelve, I 'got religion' and became a regular churchgoer. I even wanted to become a priest (Anglican). Now, when I look back on those days, I see how much I was attracted to the ritual and the vestments - ours was a very 'high' C-of-E church and I now know that our vicar and at least two or three others who served in the services, was gay, but I never got involved - didn't really understand and was never propositioned, so I suppose it shows that the older youths/men acted with complete propriety with regard to me.
Actually, that previous statement isn't quite true. When I was about fifteen or so, I did have a very few sexual encounters with one of the churchwardens in my church.
I shall call him Mark. He must have been about nineteen or twenty when I knew him and I did go to his house a few times for sex; he was the first of very few males who fucked me and whom I fucked. He was kind, sweet and gentle and very good-looking. I remember the feelings I had for him and the pleasure I enjoyed under his expert and gentle ministrations.
I was very sad when he moved out of the area, but I realise now that it was through him that I realised that I really was gay, even though it took me a few more years to completely admit it to myself. I always thought I would 'grow out of it' - I suppose I laboured under that delusion until the day I got married!
Music took over and I joined a youth symphony orchestra. I knew by then that I was much more interested in the boys than the girls, although I know I was very popular with the females. I suppose I have to admit I was very good-looking, no false modesty, it's a fact. I had big brown eyes, silky smooth chestnut-brown hair, worn long and was very slim. Had I been so inclined, I could have had my pick of the girls! I suspect, though, that if ever they were introduced to my pathetic little genitalia, I would have been the laughing-stock of the orchestra!
But it was the boys - and one boy in particular - in whom I was interested, then infatuated.
My first "Grand Passion".
We shall call him Hugh. Like me, he had shoulder-length dark hair (this was in the 'seventies, when long hair, Afghan coats and flares were de rigueur). Hugh also had brown eyes, slim - our peers called us 'the twins' - I was desperately in love with him. But, of course, as nearly always with my later infatuations, he was straight - but a little curious - I shall come back to that later.
I spent every waking hour daydreaming about Hugh; how I would be the one who would save him from a near-fatal accident, or be his organ-donor, which would make him forever grateful to me and 'turn' him into my lover. Countless sleepless nights, countless wank-sessions, devoted to thinking about him and me in all sorts of likely and unlikely situations, always ending with us being together forever.
I hated all the girls who attracted his attention. I wept gallons when I knew that he was spending time with a girl. I used to spend as much time as I could with him; sleepovers, where my frustration reached boiling point; holidays at his parents' second house by the sea. On those occasions we shared a room, but never a bed.
Once we even went camping together. It was a disaster in every way. As sheer bloody bad luck would have it, after only my second time having sex with a girl, I got a dose of clap, and I felt totally miserable. Added to that it rained incessantly and we gave up our camping trip after only a few days.
But there was one bright spot in that friendship. One evening, Hugh was over at my house - he was going to sleep over - and we spent a long time talking. I don't even remember what we were talking about, but I know it wasn't anything to do with sex. Suddenly, out of the blue, the boy whom I idolised, loved with a white-hot fervour suddenly said:
"Should we toss each other off?"
I was stunned. My straight friend, the boy I had been fantasising about for two years, suddenly said what I had always only dared dream about!
We lay down on the living-room floor, didn't even get properly undressed and in silent haste (my parents were sleeping upstairs) we wanked each other. I remember cumming too quickly, all over his clothes - and then he sort of gave up, pushed my hand away, saying that he couldn't seem to make it.
He had a lovely cock, uncut, and seeing it then for the first time, I saw that it was not so very much larger than mine. But it was still larger. To his credit, Hugh didn't make any disparaging comments about the size of my member, but I have to say, he wasn't very good at handling my cock, he pulled a bit too hard. But I wasn't going to complain! This was the beautiful Hugh, with his hand on my cock, wanking me! My sperm shot out over his jumper; it couldn't have taken more than about a minute for me to reach orgasm - that one minute is burned into my memory.
We went upstairs to my room in silence and fell asleep in separate beds.
We didn't mention it again, but on one further occasion, I did manage to fulfil another fantasy with him; he knew I was gay ('queer' in those days) and on another sleepover, I pestered him to let me suck him off, trying to convince him that he didn't know what he was missing. Eventually, I must have worn his resistance down and he, somewhat reluctantly, let me into his bed and I sucked his gorgeous cock. Frustratingly, yet again, he gave up and said he didn't feel turned on enough. I went back to my bed and jerked off, not bothering to try and disguise the fact. He just turned to the wall and (I suppose) went to sleep.
Nothing else sexual ever happened between us again. We went to different universities. I left the area, we grew older.
But, over the years and very sporadically, we have kept in touch and when I am in his neck of the woods (which is very seldom) we meet up for a pint and a gossip. We are still very good friends, but a veil has been drawn across what happened when we were teens and it has never been mentioned. Perhaps he's forgotten.
I haven't. And I never will.
Then there was the Director of our youth orchestra, a middle-aged divorcée, whom for the sake of this story and the fact that he has since died so to protect his true identity, I shall call Patrick Featherstone.
A no-nonsense man, Patrick inspired both respect and loyalty from us in 'his' orchestra. When I knew him, he must have been in his forties and it was a generally known fact in our group that he was gay. It must be said that Patrick always behaved with the utmost propriety amongst us, but he did have his favourites and about three of us in the orchestra, myself included, were those boys. Only one, as far as I know, ever had any sexual relations with him.
That one was me.
We used to have rehearsal courses during the three school holidays; Christmas, Easter and the summer. These involved a week of intense rehearsals followed by a public concert in a major concert hall. We also went on several tours abroad; France, Germany, the United States. To be in the orchestra was great kudos for us and also an invaluable training-ground for those of us who were considering going into the profession. As well as Hugh, there are a large number of alumni from the orchestra who are making successful careers in the world of music today.
Patrick was admired not only by us, but also by our parents. In those far-off, dim and distant days of my youth, the early 1970's, being gay carried a stigma and I'm sure that these days, Patrick would never be employed in any job involving young people. But, as I said earlier, his behaviour was impeccable and I know that there was never any whiff of scandal involving him.
Yet, he and I did have a brief period of sexual relations. I must stress that there was never any question of Patrick coercing me or forcing himself upon me. What happened between us was entirely my decision and I never felt any pressure to do anything I didn't want with him. At sixteen, I was old enough to make my own decisions and I decided I wanted to experiment with Patrick. It didn't happen often, but it was always an enjoyable, almost a natural experience.
Patrick would act as my accompanist for auditions for bursaries and the like and I would go to his house to go through the pieces I had to play. After which he would cook some food; invariably an omelette and equally invariably never very expertly made!
Then we would sit on his sofa and he would play records for me and after making sure that it was what I really wanted, he and I would engage in mutual masturbation. It was the first time I had seen a man's cock up close (remember, no Internet back then!) My own pathetic cock was always rock hard and Patrick sweetly said how nice it was, making me feel better about myself. "It's what you do with it," he would say. We never did anything other than toss each other off - He never asked for anything more and I never volunteered.
I recall the sensation of rubbing his large, circumcised member, leaking copious amounts of precum and his intense orgasms. I usually came very quickly under his expert ministrations.
Our 'relationship' didn't last that long, it sort of petered out and a couple of years later, in the natural course of things, I left the orchestra to go on to University. Patrick emigrated soon after and we wrote to each other a couple of times. I was genuinely saddened when I heard that he had died of cancer, in his mid-fifties.
Looking back, I suppose he couldn't believe his luck in finding a willing schoolboy, but I also was very happy with our brief fling. It was an event that further confirmed to myself where my sexual proclivities lay. Why the hell didn't I just admit to it then, once and for all and forget trying to 'straighten myself out'? I honestly can't answer that question except to say, in my defence, that when I did start dating my future wife I had been terribly lonely and thought that being 'normal' would cure it. I have no one but myself to blame for how my life has turned out.
I was undecided what to pursue in higher education. I enjoyed playing the violin but I knew that I would never be good enough to become a professional musician, so I opted for my second choice, which was maths. My parents, I know, were relieved at my choice, they were insistent that music should be a hobby; they said it was too precarious to be a musician for a living. At least with maths, I could get a 'proper' job (their words) and enjoy my music as an amateur. So I became a nerd and went to a so-so university and achieved a reasonable, but not spectacularly good 2nd class degree. Hugh, however, went into the profession and is still playing with a top orchestra.
During my University years, my sex-life all but died. I had a few very quick and messy one-night stands, and slowly came to the realisation that relationships seemed to be too complicated for me.
For a start, I always seemed to fall for the straight guys and was always disappointed. I hated the camp scene that was prevalent in those days and I was not a fan of the in-your-face and over-the-top drama queens who flounced around with lisps and limp wrists. I tended not to go to gay pubs; I was always terrified of being raped by some hairy biker in leather chaps and a moustache. A terrible generalisation, I know, but that was basically what the queer scene was like; the butch, aggressive guys or else their exact opposites and nothing much in between. Not my scene at all.
There were a couple of cute guys at University, but even then, just into my twenties, I already realised that I preferred the younger teen - in other words, boys.
I didn't go out of my way to explore and when the opportunity arose to leave the Big City and move up north to a quiet town, I took it with both hands. I suppose I needed time to try and sort myself out, I don't know, but the upshot is, I went.
I left my familiar surroundings where I had grown up and more or less 'disappeared'.
I had been offered a job with a local council as a number cruncher. Not a brilliant job, but a job nonetheless. I settled into the routine with dull colleagues in a dull town. I seemed to fit in well in the anonymity of the department where I worked. My colleagues were all older than I, most of them shy and reserved, I can't with any honesty say it was the most stimulating environment, but somehow, I felt safe amongst these quiet, mostly middle-aged people. I wasn't expected to share anything personal with these people and they certainly didn't share anything of themselves with their colleagues. After a working day, we would all politely say 'goodbye' to each other and disappear to our own homes.
Actually, up to a point, this lifestyle suited me. I preferred to keep myself to myself, always worried, I suppose, that by some accidental slip of the tongue or action, I would give myself away. I slipped inconspicuously into the milieu in which I found myself, did my job competently and slowly ascended the rungs of promotion.
It was my violin that saved me from terminal boredom.
There was a very reasonable amateur orchestra in the area and I was welcomed with open arms. Within a year, they asked me if I would become the principal first violin.
Music has always played an important part in my life and when I hear a piece that I played as a kid in the youth orchestra, all the memories come flooding back. Memories of Hugh. What he wore, his laughing eyes, his funny comments. Even now, when I hear the opening bars of a particular piece, I am transported straight back to those angst-ridden years, my love for Hugh and my own self-loathing. Memories of Patrick and his rubbery omelettes and our wank sessions on his sofa.
The amateur orchestra is made up of people of all ages, from all walks of life. It is a community where class barriers cease to exist. People are brought together by a shared passion. We had doctors, solicitors, teachers, office workers and younger people, who used the orchestra to gain experience and proficiency - and as a way of meeting other like-minded people. We played pretty well and enjoyed our common bond.
I got on well with the other members of the orchestra; some were loners, like myself, others who were there purely for the company, there were a couple of ex-professional players, who couldn't give up despite their advancing years. I got to know a middle-aged couple, Delia, a flute-player and her husband Arnie, who was a housepainter. What they lacked in instrumental expertise, they made up for in their determination to enjoy playing in the orchestra. Arnie played percussion, loudly and not always accurately, but he had gusto and was also the orchestra's foreman.
Despite my reticence, they became friendly with me. I suspected they had a secret agenda; to get me married off! I was invited to their house for barbecues, musical soirees and the occasional Sunday lunch, to which they had also invited unattached women. Give them their credit, they didn't give up easily!
But, the reason I remained friends with them, allowed them to invite me to their home and attempt to set me up with suitable unmarried women was the fact that they had an only child - a son, Giles, who played the cello.
My mind went back to my youth. Hugh had been a cellist. But there the likeness ended. Where Hugh had been dark, almost intense in his Mediterranean good looks, this boy was blond, blue-eyed, and strikingly handsome in a Nordic way. He was tall, slim and, to me, so used to observing examples of teen male pulchritude, was an especially good-looking specimen of the young adolescent male. I guessed he was about fifteen or so.
It was I who, after a few visits to their home, suggested to them that Giles might like to play in the orchestra. I tried to make it sound as if the idea had just that moment occurred to me, but in fact it had been on my mind since our first meeting; it was just a question of finding the right moment.
Delia and Arnie agreed and, whether he liked it or not, the boy was roped in to play with us. I began to look forward to invitations to Delia and Arnie's house, hoping the boy would be there, disappointed if he wasn't. I would 'drop in' with music or under the pretence of asking advice about future programming for the orchestra, just to get a glimpse of Giles.
My plan worked. At the beginning of the autumn season, Delia and Arnie turned up with Giles in tow. As leader of the orchestra, I had a say in where the boy would sit. I put him on the front desk of cellos, next to the principal. He was certainly an accomplished enough player to sit there, but my main objective was that, from where I sat, I had a perfect, unobstructed view of the boy to whom I had given the private nickname, the Blond Bombshell.
All the old biddies in the orchestra, friends of Delia and Arnie, seemed to take him on as their pet project, becoming sort of honorary aunts to the boy. He took it in good part, but always seemed to keep himself slightly apart. He was reserved and didn't really mix with the other people of his own age, either male or female. The few young girls there all tried to get him to notice them, but he seemed aloof. He wasn't ever rude, but it became clear before very long, even to the most persistent of the girls that he preferred his own company and so the disappointed girls eventually gave up on trying to get him to notice them.
True to form, constantly on my guard, I also did my best not to pay him too much obvious attention. Despite this, in rehearsals, I found my eyes too often found themselves wandering over to observe the serious young teen as he played, a look of concentration on his face. He had the habit of poking his tongue slightly out of one corner of his mouth as he played, long slender fingers flitting over the cello strings, brow furrowed in concentration.
In him, I thought I caught glimpses of myself at his age and I wondered...
* * *
The teen in front of me now, this wet Wednesday afternoon looks at me expectantly. We have built up, I think, a good relationship; not too formal, but also at the same time not overstepping the boundaries of the teacher-student. We share the occasional joke and I take great pleasure in introducing the boy to new music, new ways of thinking about how music is composed. I've even touched on some composers' life-stories, not shying away from being upfront about, say, Tchaikovsky's homosexuality or Wagner's way of writing music where he conveys sexual longing and even intercourse.
The boy takes these observations in his stride; occasionally a faint blush betraying what he might be thinking when I tell him these things. Images of his naked form flash before my eyes as the lesson progresses and below my desk, hidden from view, I grow hard as I imagine various erotic scenarios involving us both. I manage to keep my voice even and I think I am successful in not betraying what my overactive imagination is up to. I wonder what his imaginings are, but of course, I wouldn't know.
I have, once or twice in the past year or so, noticed that his eyes drop to my crotch area now and again, but I wear long pullovers that cover my groin area, so he has no idea how pitiful I am in the dick department.
Just as well.
His costume, however, leaves not much to the imagination and I can easily make out the substantial tube of his manhood behind his zipper, the bulge clearly outlined by those snug hipsters of his. I envy him his good-sized cock and have, on many occasions, imagined how he would look in a state of arousal; is he circumcised or not? Would his erect member reach his navel? Does it perhaps bend slightly? All good fodder for my lonely wank-sessions. I know that he's right-handed and, as he sits in class, writing, I imagine those slender, yet strong-looking fingers wrapped around his shaft, as he teases himself to orgasm. Better still, my hand on his cock, as he lies naked, subservient, hips raised, in the throes of our mutual passion.
* * *
So, how did I get into teaching youngsters about music?
I had been working for ten years for the local council in the stultifying atmosphere of the accounts department, where nothing ever changed and the highlight of the month was if the supply of Bourbon biscuits ran out. I hadn't got to know any of my colleagues any better than on the first day I met them.
No-one died, a couple reached retirement age, but were not replaced and I gradually worked my way up to Section Head - a pointless title, really, as we all worked together in one open-plan office and the workload was equally divided between us all. But someone had to go to the boring monthly inter-departmental "Focus on Future" meetings. I got the impression that as the 'new boy' I had drawn the short straw - those meetings were almost always totally pointless. A lot of jargon and council gobbledygook about practically nothing. I sat there, doodling on my pad, letting the boring speeches about 'long-term goals' and 'community-friendly projects' wash over me.
However, doing my best not to be noticed obviously didn't work with one person in particular. My life was about to change; dramatically and irrevocably.
Her name is Helen. In those days, she worked in the Town Hall, as head of the Social Services Department.
It was one of those Christmas office parties; I got a little tipsy and Helen spent most of the evening talking to me. I was coming down with a ´flu bug and was also drinking more than was good for me. The evening is hazy, but the upshot is, that, against my better judgement and without fully realising the implications, or thinking it through, found myself being taken, more dead than alive, back to Helen's flat.
I woke up the next morning, naked in bed beside her, with no real recollection of whether we 'had' or 'hadn't.'
Helen was quick to inform me that we 'had' but that I had been somewhat 'under the weather' - her euphemism for the fact that I probably failed to perform adequately. The fact that I had even performed at all came as a shock to me and lying there in bed next to her that cold, dark Saturday morning just before Christmas, I felt suddenly very tired of all the years of being on my own. I must have reasoned that any close company was better than no company. That morning, I felt tired, not just physically, but emotionally as well.
We started seeing each other on a regular basis.
My inability to break it off with Helen and my sheer stupidity in not using protection were the final nails in my coffin.
We were married six months later - after she had told me that she was pregnant with my child.
My parents were delighted, of course and when little Ella was born, I thought that maybe things would be all right and that maybe I had, indeed, 'cured' myself.
There was no doubt as to who ran the household. Helen was - is - determined, competent and a very clear thinker. Once, she told me that she had single-mindedly sought me out and decided that I was the person she would marry. This news somehow made me feel that I had almost been tricked into marrying her, that the pregnancy had been deliberate on her part and not, as she said, that she had 'forgotten' to take the Pill.
We had a turbulent life together, particularly early on in our married life. She was a highly sexed woman and I found her demands, to say the least, distasteful. I did my best to show an interest early on in our life together, closing my eyes and imagining I was fucking a sweet boy's arse, but it wasn't easy. How I got sick of those 'I have needs, as well you know' talks we had, usually late at night, in bed, after yet another rebuff from me.
My role in these talks was most often a silent one. I would take the complaints, the amateur psychoanalysis, in silence. Better to say nothing than give fuel for further analytical dissections by the forever-logical woman.
Many a night, lying next to my sleeping wife, I would silently jerk off, my thoughts filled with images of a boy I might have seen somewhere during that day, or Giles, or else remembering Hugh. I became the world expert of the silent orgasm.
In those early years, it was Giles who occupied most of my waking (and sometimes sleeping) hours. The orchestra rehearsals were a haven for me; an evening away from Helen and an opportunity to secretly ogle Giles. Actually, we began, slowly, to become friends. In the rehearsal breaks, we might occasionally exchange a word or two, although Delia or Arnie were often present as well, I still felt that Giles and I were beginning to connect. His shy smile, lowered eyes and blushing cheek were a joy to me.
Very gradually, it was he who sought me out in the breaks and instigated a conversation. Of course, I had to be constantly on my guard; not to be seen to be showing too much interest in the boy, but I was glad to see that his parents almost actively encouraged Giles to be social with me. I had stopped going round to their house after I was married, and they were always asking me to bring Helen around, but I always had an excuse.
For her part, Helen had to be almost forced into coming to our concerts; she had no musical interest whatsoever and if she did turn up, we would always go home immediately after the concert and I would be forced to miss the little party the orchestra held and therefore some precious time with Giles.
I felt that Helen was sucking the life out of me and of course, there was little Ella, sweet little Ella, who needed the loving care and attention of both her parents. Helen and I settled into a routine of angry bickering and truces. Our sex-life was dwindling and we were both short-tempered and frustrated.
Life at work was also getting to me. Same old routine, day in, day out, with no variation. I felt as if I were suffocating. I needed a change.
The opportunity for that change came up quite unexpectedly. After one concert, someone approached me from the Education Department in the Town Hall. Would I consider becoming a part-time peripatetic violin teacher? The pay wasn't great, but it would add some much-needed cash we needed. I would be able to juggle my regular job with the teaching, seeing as I would, in effect be working for the same employer, namely the Town Hall.
Two afternoons a week, four schools. I would have the chance to get out of that bloody office and I would be working with kids. I liked the idea and oddly, so did Helen.
So began a new chapter in my life. The teaching was hard going, but I had a couple of very promising pupils and I enjoyed being able to do something for which I had a real passion. There weren't many boys learning the violin, but, truthfully, that didn't matter to me. What mattered was that I seemed to get a new energy, find a flame inside me that I could nurture, do something I cared about.
I spent the next three years feeling much more relaxed and amazingly, Helen's and my relationship improved. We even began to have sex more frequently and even more amazingly, it was I who even sometimes instigated our lovemaking.
During this time, unhappily for me, Giles and his parents left the area. It was a great blow and one I had to bear in silence. I missed looking over at the Blond Bombshell and although there had never been anything physical between us, not even a hint of it, I knew that Giles had become very fond of me. Dare I say I think that maybe he had a crush on me?
The last time I saw him, Delia and Arnie had invited the whole orchestra around, and for once, Helen came with me. It was an early autumn day, the leaves just beginning to turn but the sun was out and it was to be a barbecue. Their back garden was large (house-painting was obviously a lucrative business!) and down at the end was a small copse, left to grow wild. Standing next to the grill, Delia turned to me at one point and asked if I wouldn't go down there and find some wild mushrooms, which would do just nicely with the hamburgers.
Suddenly, out of nowhere and by my side was Giles, who offered to come and help me. I needed no further prompting! The both of us left the group of happily chatting people (even Helen was in deep conversation with someone) and walked down the garden and into the thick copse. Giles showed me where the best places for mushrooms were and which ones were edible and we began to pick them, bending down, moving slowly through the closely growing trees.
We didn't speak much, except for when he pointed out another ring of mushrooms (they always seem to grow in rings). I was thinking how I would miss this beautiful teen boy; all the while sneaking glances at his slim figure as he bent down in the wild grass.
He wore a skimpy tee shirt and his usual well-fitting jeans. There was a delightful gap between the two, so that as he bent over, I had a view of pale honey-coloured skin, the bones of his vertebrae prominent. The blue, faded denim of his jeans stretched across his perfectly formed behind, the two joyously round melons of his buttocks so pert and ripe! I was intent on observing him, I completely forgot about mushroom picking.
We were silent. He intent on gathering the fungi, me intent on watching his sexy, slim body and that fantastic butt. In my mind's eye, I pictured us deep in the throes of passion, as I had so often imagined when I was obliged to fuck Helen or jacking off next to her sleeping form in our marital bed.
He must have caught me looking. With a strange look on his face, halfway between quizzical and sad, he put his basket down and straightened up. I just stood there, wondering what he could have seen - whether he had sussed that I had been staring at him. My mouth went dry. I expected him to either rant at me for perving him or else to run back up the garden and tell his parents.
He did neither. Very slowly, still holding my gaze, he walked towards me, the long grass swishing past his slender legs. A blackbird started singing.
He came right up to where I was standing, still holding the practically empty trug I was holding. His eyes, grey like the North Sea, stared deep into mine, as he reached forward and with his slender hand, took the trug from me and let it fall to the ground at our feet.
After what seemed like a million years, gazing into each other's eyes, Giles spoke, his voice a hoarse whisper;
"I'll miss you. Terribly."
Very slowly, his eyes watchful, wide and moist, he reached out and enfolded me in his arms, pulling me close to himself, burying his head in my shoulder. For a moment, I was too dumbfounded to do anything but stand there, but at last, my brain kicked in and I put my arms about the boy's slim body, holding him tightly. I buried my face in his wheaten hair, inhaling the scent of shampoo in the slightly unruly curls and kissed his ear, nuzzling close to him.
"And I you, Giles," I croaked.
We held each other tightly for a few moments longer and then it was over. Our arms dropped to our sides and after a sad smile, Giles turned, retrieved his basket of mushrooms and we resumed our harvesting for another ten minutes of total silence. We needed no more words. We had no more words.
And the blackbird went on singing.
We walked back up the sloping garden to the patio and the party. We didn't speak again. As we left, mindful of Helen's presence next to me, I merely shook the boy's slim hand, holding it tightly for perhaps a little longer than was usual. I saw the sadness behind his eyes. I wondered if he felt my sadness. I said goodbye to his parents and Helen and I left.
I have often wondered since what happened to that sweet, sad teen and whether he is happy. Was he gay? I couldn't say for sure, but in a way, that doesn't matter. What mattered was that he had some sort of feelings for me and that he was sad to be leaving. Every time I hear a blackbird sing, or eat mushrooms, the image of that blond-haired, sexy teen comes before me and I silently send him my love.
I carried on playing with the local amateur orchestra and my teaching was increased. I was offered a job on the permanent staff of a newly formed centre for young musicians, teaching theory and violin. With great relief, I was able to resign from my number crunching job for the local council.
Helen also switched jobs, heading a consultancy in the private sector and our finances improved dramatically. Sweet little Ella grew and blossomed into a beautiful young woman. Life went on and Helen and I somehow managed to stay together, although our sex-life was by now, completely non-existent. I was mildly surprised that my wife didn't have an affair; but then, maybe she did and was expert at hiding it. Somehow, I don't think she did.
I remained quiet, occasionally having devastating crushes on a few teen boys who crossed my path, but never doing anything about it, only in my imagination. What saved me from going quite insane were the Internet and a couple of people I met there. I also wrote a few stories, which gave me the much needed opportunity to be myself, albeit anonymously. I remember reading stories by Jack Kendle, one in particular, "Lost and Found", which struck a chord in me. He seemed to be describing me! I got in touch with him and it was he who suggested I write this. 'Use it as a catharsis' he had said. So here it is, warts and all.
I lived my double life and the years passed.
* * *
Now I'm fifty-six. Time marches on.
The young teen waits for me to start the lesson. His name is Ian and studies the piano. As I say, I have taught him for about six years or so. I think he is comfortable with me and he seemed very happy when I suggested he have his lessons with me on a one-on-one basis. Of course, my suggestion was not just in the boy's interests, although private tuition is usually better than a whole class. It meant I could devote all my attention to Ian; something I was more than happy to do.
He has an excellent ear and I teach him the ins and outs of harmony as well as aural training. Occasionally, I will spend a lesson playing music for him, trying to broaden his horizons. He is receptive and makes intelligent remarks. He also makes me laugh, with his sometimes-offbeat observations.
I am growing extremely fond of him and he is often in my thoughts. I must be careful not to frighten him off or give him cause to regard me with suspicion. As always, I must keep my cards close to my chest. I'm used to that by now.
Something, however, tells me that he knows. I can't put my finger on it exactly, but I sometimes get the feeling that he is watching me speculatively. Apart from the fact that I have noticed his eyes wandering down to my crotch area a few times, I'm fairly sure he's caught me scoping him. Sometimes, it's as if he is smiling at some private joke. Not malicious, or anything like that, it's more of an indulgent smile. I've seen him look at me like that more than once. I'm left to guess what that Mona Lisa smile really means, if it means anything at all.
Yet, even if Ian were gay, or just curious, I would never be able to do anything sexual with him. That would just be like putting a gun to my head and pulling the trigger.
Look? Sure.
Imagine? Why not?
Be nice to the boy, that goes without saying. But within the limits set by society. That, of course, is as far as I can go. Anything more than that would be like suicide, were I to do anything more.
My fantasies about him, when I am safe and alone, are of wild, abandoned and somewhat rough sex; often with him being the dominant partner and subjecting me to mild humiliation. Those fantasies at least give me satisfying orgasms!
However, alone with him, on the surface at least, I am quiet, almost shy like a tongue-tied teenager myself. The years have taught me self-control and how to hide my real feelings.
Below the surface, I am in turmoil. Below my desk, I am already hard.
Ian has that smile on his face today. Gently humorous, enigmatic. Unable to help myself, I smile back.
"What would you like to do today?" I ask him, knowing how he would reply, were this one of my regular fantasies.
He slightly shrugs his shoulders. "Whatever you want." Was that a deliberately ambiguous answer? That smile again!
Oh! If only you knew what I wanted! My mind screams, but my voice remains calm.
"Shall we do some sight-singing?" I ask.
I love to hear his light baritone voice as he sings through the exercises. What's even better, is that when we do them, I make him stand in front of me, where I sit at the piano. I can take in his whole body; broad shoulders, slim waist, prominent crotch, long legs. Perfection manifested in the form of a boy.
He is wearing a tight-fitting tee shirt and through the stretched white cotton, I can make out his well-defined abs and pectoral muscles. Ian, I know, is a keen swimmer - more delightful images of him in skimpy, shining Speedos dance on my inner eye. Showing up under the pristine material are the nubs of his nipples, perkily pointed under the cloth. As he takes his place in front of me, I wonder whether he has yet developed a 'treasure trail' from his navel and whether his pubic hair is the same dirty blond as his head.
He pushes his slightly unruly locks back with a slender hand and I notice something new and a little unexpected about the boy: he has acquired a small stud in his left ear; the glint of a pink stone catches the light. He must have seen that I notice this - do I detect a faint blush? There is a look akin to defiance in his eyes, almost challenging me to make a comment. I don't, except perhaps for a slightly raised eyebrow. The smile returns, although the cheek is still slightly flushed.
He hasn't shaved for a few days and there is a slight hint of peachy down on his upper lip and down his jawbones, so pale that it's hardly noticeable - except to someone like me, who makes a point of studying the young male form closely!
He settles down and we begin the lesson.
"do-fa-mi-re-do..." his hesitant voice gaining more confidence as he goes through the exercises. His voice is sweet, gentle - I am almost hypnotised by the sight and sounds in front of me, my imagination running riot as I mechanically accompany him at the piano.
All too soon, the half-hour is up. Another week before I see him again. I fish in my wallet and produce a ticket for the orchestra's next concert.
"Perhaps you might be interested?" I purposely give him only one ticket, so that it will lessen the chances of him coming with someone else. If he does turn up, I would like to think it was because he genuinely wanted to hear the music and not because it might be a chance to bring his (God forbid!) girlfriend with him.
Ian accepts the ticket graciously; he sounds almost keen.
"Thanks!" He smiles and inwardly I melt.
He stops short of saying that he'll be there, I notice. Ah well. If he comes, it will be nice. If not - well, I'm used to disappointments in my life.
I have deliberately chosen this upcoming concert because I know that Helen won't be there; she is going to be out of town that weekend. All sorts of scenarios go round and about in my head as Ian pockets the ticket in the back pocket of his impossibly tight jeans. I envy that small piece of card its resting-place.
Ian leaves the room and my life goes grey again.
* * *
The concert went well. Before we started, I scanned the audience hoping to see if Ian has turned up. I didn't see him. I suppose I should have known that a sixteen-year-old's first idea of a fun night out would not be a concert of classical music by an amateur orchestra. Although I know I shouldn't, I am annoyed and disappointed. I had spent the intervening days in anticipation of seeing Ian, thinking about all sorts of possible scenarios involving us; would he accept my offer of a lift after the concert? Should I perhaps invite him over to my place to 'talk about the music' - I had even bought fizzy drinks and snacks! I had let my fantasies involving the teen overspill into the real world and I was bound to be disappointed.
In these fantasies, I had hoped that he would accept my invitation and that when we were alone at my house, all sorts of wonderful and exciting things would happen.
He would accept my offer of a lift, the conversation (steered by me) would lead to me inviting him home, after which - as if by magic - we would engage in wild and passionate sex, no holds barred.
Fantasy, nothing more. Nothing to do with reality. I would have to realise that I would forever be on my own; no sexy, amazingly beautiful teen boys would throw themselves at me. It was time to get real.
What a pathetic idiot I am! How dare I assume that the boy is gay, or even remotely interested in a man forty years his senior! My fantasies revolved about me fulfilling my desires, not even taking the boy, the subject of my obsession, into consideration.
After the concert, I don't feel like staying on for the small party. Giles isn't there any more and I don't feel like making small conversation with the other players. I pack my violin and go to the car park.
A figure stands by my car.
A tall, lanky blond boy.
Ian.
"Feel like giving me a lift?"
I don't think twice about saying 'yes' and I unlock the car.
"Where to?" I ask.
The enigmatic smile plays on his lips.
As he opens the car door and slips in beside me, I find I am holding my breath.
THE END
