Wooing McLellan

by N Fourbois

"Wotch you looking at, Foureyes?"

"You, McLellan," answered Nigel in a matter of fact tone as they were about to leave their Year 9 maths class. "And the name is Fourbois, pronounced '4 boys' as you very well know."

"Well, you shouldn't stare, or are you some kind of perve or something?"

"A cat can look at a queen. Anyway, if you don't want people perving at you, you shouldn't be walking around the school in broad daylight with such a big stiffie poking through your trousers."

Marcus blushed, realising he'd made a booboo by challenging Fourbois in the first place while he was aroused.

"You ought to go and see your doctor and get it chopped in half. You're obscene. And then you have the cheek to go round calling other people perves."

"You're only jealous, Fourskin."

"Fourbois! And of what, may I ask?"

"'Cos you've only got a peewee."

"So you've been peeking, then? Who's the perve now?"

At that Marcus's frustration at losing the argument got the better of him. He slapped Nigel round the back of the head and ran out of the classroom pushing his way through the crowds in the corridor to escape. Not to be outdone Nigel immediately gave chase, likewise pushing his way through the crowds of schoolboys hurrying through the corridors to their next class and was about to land a slap across the back of Marcus's head when a voice boomed "Stop!" It was Thomas, a prefect, and they did.

"I don't know what you two think you're doing running in the corridor like that and shoving people out of the way," said Thomas, "but you've just earnt yourselves an hour's detention each." Their faces dropped. It had been their bad luck to run into Jim Thomas, one of the stricter prefects. Now, if it had been Andy Cragg, he would have wagged a finger and sent them on their way with a ticking off.

"But I've got rugby practice after school on Thursdays," said Nigel, crestfallen. "I won't get into the team on Saturday if I don't go."

"So have I," groaned Marcus.

"All the more reason to behave yourselves."

The two boys were peremptorily dismissed and they exchanged looks of anger and hatred.

"I'll see you at break, Fourboize," said Marcus "and I shouldn't be wearing those glasses, if I were you." They made their separate ways to the next lesson. After that it would be break.

It started in a small way. The two gladiators met out on the school fields to exchange insults and recriminations.

"You shouldn't have slapped me on the head," said Nigel.

"You shouldn't have been ogling my trousers."

"If you're going to wander around with a stiffie, McLellan, everybody's going to ogle."

"You've got a dirty mind to be interested."

"You've got a dirty mind to get like that in the first place."

"No, I haven't. It just happens. It's nature. You can't help it," and at that Marcus lunged out to slap Nigel on the head again. He caught Marcus's arm, using it to push him off balance and punching him on the cheek as he went down.

As traditionally happens, a small crowd had gathered round chanting "Fight! Fight!" and as tradition would have it the small crowd became a big crowd comprising a large proportion of the school.

McLellan and Fourbois were now wrestling on the ground. Quite what they were hoping to achieve was unclear as neither could get his hand or arm in a position to land an effective punch. The crowd had polarised, cheering and encouraging their chosen champion and booing the opposition. However, Fourbois had managed to free an arm sufficiently to slip his hand between McLellan's legs and he was giving his balls a good feel.

"Get off, you queer."

"Make me," Fourbois replied, obviously relishing what he was doing and the crowd thinking they were scrogging, 1 an acceptable way of fighting in their school. McLellan strained without any success. Fourbois continued until he felt his adversary's cock growing and stiffening. "Now you've got a reason for calling me queer, McLellan." Marcus's efforts at resisting were palpably slackening. He couldn't admit to himself that he was rather enjoying the feel of Fourbois's hand there as it caressed his 'lump'.

Naturally the noise and the crowd attracted the attention of the master on duty who didn't have to force his way through the ring as the more perspicacious pupils disappeared, lest they should be associated with the goings on.

"You two boys, get up immediately and stand over there." Nigel gave Marcus's balls a final tweak and they parted, both white in the face and glowering at one another. "Fourbois and McLellan. I'm surprised at you two. I thought you were two of the more civilised members of the school. I'm not going to ask what this is about. It's not my place to take sides. You've each got an hour's detention and get it sorted before the end of the day when you will both come and see me before going home this afternoon. Just to make sure you have."

"Yes, sir," said Fourbois.

"Yes, sir," said McLellan and if looks could kill, both boys would have been dead on the spot.

"Now one of you go to the changing rooms and the other to the toilets and tidy yourselves up," said Mr Pryce. "I don't know what your mothers are going to say about the mud and grass stains on your school uniforms."

In the toilets Nigel looked at himself in the mirror, wetted his handkerchief and wiped away the trail of dried blood coming from his nose. In the mirror he could see prefect Jim Thomas standing behind him.

"You're a slow learner, Fourbois. When I was your age, a master would have sent us straight to the Headmaster for three strokes of the cane if we'd been caught fighting. No questions. Pity it was ever stopped." Nigel adjusted his tie and tried to brush the mud off his school blazer, but just made it worse because it hadn't dried.

In the changing rooms Marcus looked at himself in the mirror and held his wetted handkerchief to his cheek. The purple of a black eye was already beginning to appear. That was a double edged sword. He could wear it proudly as a badge of honour, but it showed that he had lost the fight and he still had it to explain to his mother when he got home. Otherwise he could have said he had slipped up in the mud.

The next lesson was geography. Nigel, sensing he had the upper hand psychologically, even if the contest on the field had been ended in stalemate because of Mr Pryce's premature intervention, purposely went and sat by Marcus. While the geography master groaned on about the demographics of Bangladesh, Nigel concentrated his attention on Marcus's trousers, bulging again with an adolescent pop up.

"You're doing it again, you filthy homo," said Marcus in little less than a stage whisper.

"So are you, you sex-weirdo," Nigel whispered back. "Your dick has already cost me two detentions and I want to get my money's worth."

"Quiet, boys," barked Mr Mason without turning round. They ceased immediately. Nigel and Marcus knew they were on a slippery slope for if they got a third detention before working off one of those they already had, they knew that would mean a visit to the Headmaster and an automatic Saturday detention without remission of the others, the consequence of which would mean missing another school rugby match. Today was Monday, prefects' detention on Thursday, masters' detention on Friday. Three and a half days of perfect behaviour required.

At the end of school the boys dutifully turned up to see Mr Pryce. They did not dare do otherwise. Too many school rugby matches in the balance. At least they were talking to each other although there remained a trace of resentment since the other had caused the trouble in the first place. After enduring a good dressing-down from Mr Pryce the boys were made to shake hands. To this day he didn't know what made him do it, but, invisible to the master, Nigel stroked the palm of Marcus's hand with his finger. Both boys knew what it meant, but the effect on Marcus was electrifying. Nothing was said; Marcus did not try to pull his hand away, but they did avoid each other's gaze. Nigel didn't dare look at Marcus's trousers either, but he felt a twitch in his own.

Reluctant peace made, the boys were dismissed by Mr Pryce and they made their separate ways home, neither knowing what to expect when they arrived there.

Nigel knew it was no use spinning his mother a yarn. She would not only see the muddied uniform, but the bloodied handkerchief. If he'd fallen over, where was the wound and she'd want to see it to make sure it was clean and why didn't he go to Matron? He couldn't blame his mother for he had inherited the same sort of analytical mind and it had served him well during his fourteen years on the planet. Okay, he got a rocket for the state he was in, and for letting both himself and the family down. When his father heard later of the fight in general and the black eye in particular, he said quietly and outside his wife's earshot "Well done, son. You won't have him on your back again in the near future." Of course neither parent knew the true cause of the conflict and it was probably better that way. That battle would have to be fought another day. Now there was just the small problem of telling them about the two detentions.

Marcus did not fare so well. His mother was divorced and so he had only her to face. However, she felt she had to compensate for the missing parent without understanding that a male would view things differently. By nature Marcus was a very neat looking boy, one in whose power it was never to look scruffy. This was why he could wear close fitting clothes and, incidentally, why his adolescent erections were so obvious. Because of this ability Mrs McLellan was that more shocked to see the state of disarray Marcus was in on his arrival home. It was fair to say that her first reaction was to freak – she was going to telephone the school, ring up Fourbois's parents and generally bring the fabric of the building down around their ears, but realising that her teenage son had over the long term grown impervious to her rantings and was patronisingly waiting for her to calm down, the storm abated. She wanted to know the ins and outs of the whole affair and working backwards she discovered that Marcus was the one who struck the first blow 'because he was staring at me.' That was Marcus's final word of explanation. He was not prepared to tell his mother what was wrong with Nigel 'staring at me' and she would never in all her days dream that it was about a penile erection. Being of a certain age her mind simply did not function in such elevated spheres and her son was in no mood to enlighten her further. In the end she told him not to act so impulsively in future – for impulsive read stupid – and that she felt that the two detentions and the possibility being dropped from the rugby team would act as a sufficient reminder.

After tea Marcus glumly went to his room to start his homework. Ironically one of the subjects was RE (Religious Education) and he had to write a discursive essay on the theme of verses 43 and 44 in the 5 th Chapter of St Matthew's gospel. 2 Hmm, plenty to think about there, he thought.

Nigel decided on an early night. The events of the day had drained him mentally and emotionally and he felt exhausted. Physically he was not in the least bit tired. He thought he would simply climb into bed, spank the monkey and slip off into a deep and dreamless sleep ready to face a new day with a fresh start, but it was not to be. To begin with the monkey didn't want to be spanked. Try as he might, it wouldn't cooperate. He rubbed it, he pulled his foreskin back and forth over the tip, he fondled his balls, but nothing happened except that his wrist ached. He tried it with his left hand, but that was just difficult. He made a mental note to train his left hand up to the right hand's standard… in everything. At that moment he would have given his right arm to ambidextrous. Nothing was happening down there. He tried to think of sexy things, but his brain was already on overload thinking of non-sexy things. Impotent at fourteen, he scoffed. He was trying to blank out what had happened at school that day, but was only partially successful. He tried to think back to the PHSE lesson in the afternoon where they had been dealing with just that – impotence, but without success as all mental activity was at that moment being overwhelmed by thoughts of the RE lesson and the essay he had to write for homework. No 'hate thine enemy' any more, but 'love your enemies'. That day had given him plenty of material, but while writing his essay, he had just sleepwalked to a conclusion he was not content with. His mind wandered. Why is it 'hate thine enemy', but love your enemies'? He'd have to ask about that next lesson, but that wasn't until Thursday when he had to give the essay in. The other saying was 'know thine enemy'. At that he fell asleep.

Nigel woke suddenly in the middle of the night. He was cold. The duvet had fallen onto the floor. He leaned over and pushed the top of his alarm clock. Just after ten o'clock. Then he remembered he had gone to bed early. He could hear his parents getting ready to go to bed. At least he had an erection now. He put his hand on it and straightaway realised it was a pisshard. He couldn't wank that. It would hurt. He needed to relieve himself, but how was he to get to the bathroom without his parents' seeing him with his prick tenting in his pyjamas? After what seemed ages and was in fact less than five minutes he heard his parents' bedroom door close. He could venture a quick dash. A dash for a slash, he thought and grinned to himself.

Mission accomplished Nigel got back into bed. He lay on his stomach, hoping to fall back into oblivion until the morning when his mother would wake him with a cup of tea and a couple of biscuits, although these days that could be an embarrassment, especially if he had thrown the duvet off in the middle of the night.

No, same story as earlier. He couldn't get back to sleep, his dick had gone limp and there was nothing he could do or think of to coax it to stiffen up again. He turned over and lay on his back, hands behind his head, fingers interlaced. His mind started to wander again: 'Love your enemies… know thine enemy… love your enemies' and so on it went until his brain homed in on the word 'enemy' which switched his thoughts to the fight he had that morning with McLellan. Suddenly it was no longer a fight. He could not get it out of his head how he'd managed to scrog him. Through his trousers he could jiggle his balls and that felt good, and he could distinctly feel the shaft of his prick and that felt hot. He could picture exactly what McLellan's tackle was like. Changing for games and PE, Nigel had checked out all his classmates, something he'd found more exciting this term as the thirteen year olds grew into fourteen years olds and entered that fleeting stage of life. How had someone calling himself bobcat555 described it, talking of Justin Bieber? " He (Biebs) is the absolute epitome of what the word 'BOY' means… very small window of time in a male's life where boy and man collide. CUTE guy 4 sure!" Nigel adored the Biebs, or did so until he too had passed that very small window of time. He just couldn't abide his singing.

He thought back to McLellan and the fight. Nigel had already discussed with his parents the probability he was gay. Their reaction was cool. They impressed on him that it might just be a phase, explained what bi meant and said he would know for certain at some time in his life. They didn't want him to grow up feeling different or weird or with complexes. They wanted him to be at peace with himself. Now his dick had started to behave in the expected manner, this peewee made public in the showers at school, was no longer a peewee. This was the leviathan no one there had seen. Nigel was firmly a grower rather than a show-er, and his right hand was doing what it was supposed to be doing. In his mind, though, it was unzipping McLellan's trousers and it was his cock he was stroking. Not his own. His orgasm gave him no warning. The thick wads came all over his pyjama top. He grabbed a tissue and had hardly cleaned himself up when he turned over with the words 'Love your enemies' on his lips and he fell asleep until morning.

There were no doubts in his mind about his sexuality.

In the McLellan household there was a similar, yet different situation. Marcus got into bed, put the light out and immediately slid his left hand between his legs. He was feeling his bollocks and his dick through his boxer shorts, attempting to evoke the same sensation he had experienced that morning when Fourbois's hand was there jiggling his balls. But in vain. Although it was in the middle of a fight, which he ruefully admitted to himself he had lost on points, he had felt exhilarated by the excitement of someone else's hand doing what he was trying to do now. He still quickly got a stiffie which he dispatched within five minutes and as he rolled over he fell asleep thinking that there might be something in the saying 'Love your enemies.'

When he got up that Tuesday morning Marcus went downstairs to find his mother pressing his school uniform after putting it through washer and dryer the previous night. "Thanks, Mum," he said guiltily as he took it from her and went back upstairs. As he sat lacing up his shoes, he thought about the previous day's experience. He had never questioned his sexuality before, not even thought about it. Why should he? He'd done his share of checking out in the changing room and at the swimming baths – didn't everybody do that? – sometimes he played dicktag in the showers after a rugby match, but girls had never troubled him, nor had boys. He was self-contained, a confident young man without any hang ups, extremely good looking… or pretty, depending on your point of view, but he had never realised it and certainly didn't take any notice when his mother or grandmother told him so. Admittedly his body had been changing over the past few months: his voice had deepened, hair had started growing in previously bald areas, he had got taller with his school trousers that had previously fallen over his shoes now giving more than a glimpse of sock. All this he had taken in his stride. Then there were these incontrollable and sudden erections. Even these he had taken in his stride. His schoolmates got them too and he knew how to get rid of them, though he couldn't really use the method he'd acquired in the middle of a maths lesson or on a bus. In fact, he rather liked them. There something thrilling about them and thinking back he now wished he hadn't made a fuss about it when he found Fourbois ogling him. Perhaps he should have fondled himself ostentatiously under the desk and provided his spectator with something to look at. All this he had accepted as the way of the world until Fourbois had been scrogging him in the fight yesterday.

"Marcus, are you coming down for breakfast? You'll be late if you don't hurry." His mother's call had ripped him out of his reverie.

Making their separate ways to school that morning, the same thought occurred to Nigel and Marcus. However their lives had unfolded up until yesterday, they were now inextricably bound together for the next few days at least, like it or not. Perhaps they had better learn to love their enemies. Their first combined task was to see Mr Plover at morning break. Mr Plover was their rugby master. Marcus's black eye was even darker. The next day it should turn yellow and start to disappear. They made their way to the Masters' Common Room, knocked on the door and dutifully waited. Mr Plover came out, cup of tea in one hand, a biscuit in the other.

"Yes, boys."

"Sir, we can't come to rugby practice after school on Thursday," Nigel started.

"We're in detention," completed Marcus. Mr Plover didn't have to say anything to convey his disapproval.

"It looks to me as if I have two willing reserves for Saturday." The boys knew the score. Firstly, selection was made from those who turned up to the practice. Secondly, if you missed, you proved your continued interest by volunteering to run the line or by acting as a reserve, which meant the possibility of turning up, changing and changing back again without getting a game. However, Mr Plover never said never. There was the remote possibility that he might not be able to find anyone as good as Marcus and Nigel at the practice. There was the less remote possibility that one of the selected players might injure himself or suffer from the Saturday morning tummy bug and not be able to turn out. In their heads he boys knew they were in a strong position, though they daren't say so. Marcus played in the specialist position of scrum half and everyone knew he was good and that no one else came up to his ability. Also he was a natural left footed kicker. Nigel was a reliable tackler and what was tactfully called a utility player. He could fill in almost anywhere and the boys had done the right thing. They had spoken to Mr Plover early in the week. "Thank you, boys. I'll be touch."

Wednesday and peace, not even reluctant peace, reigned between the two boys. Nigel realised that Marcus was having an effect on him. He wanted to look at him, talk to him, be with him, touch him. He made a point of sitting next to him during lessons. He went and changed next to him for Wednesday's games lesson. He'd had no difficulty getting off Tuesday night. Nor Wednesday morning. And Marcus appeared accommodating. Nigel took his RE exercise book home with him that evening and although he had completed his essay on loving one's enemies, he pasted some blank pages across it and rewrote it completely. Now he had experience.

Walking out of the door on Thursday morning, Marcus shouted out "Bye, Mum! Don't forget I'll be late home tonight."

"Of course. It's rugby practice on Thursdays." Devious as he was, Marcus was through the garden gate before he could correct her and say he was in detention.

Since the abolition of caning punishment detention had been made harder. It was designed to be mind-numbingly dull for an hour and so detainees were required to copy out the school rules in absolute silence and when they were finished they had to go back to the beginning and start again. It was taken seriously and avoided.

There were about twenty boys in prefects' detention that week. Nigel and Marcus went into the 'dit room' and took seats side by side. Having received paper and a copy of the school rules in case they had left their school lists at home, they began the task. Nigel could not resist looking every few minutes under the desk across at Marcus to see if he was sporting a boner. And half the time he was. Once when he was, Marcus elaborately re-arranged it in his trousers. Nigel wanted to reach across and give him a hand, but didn't dare for if he had been caught not working, this detention would not be signed off and he would have to repeat it the following Thursday.

After they were released, our two boys made their way out to the rugby field where the practice was going on.

"Hey, Peewee, you were doing it again."


"Perving at my trousers."

"What do you expect? After all, you were putting on quite a show. Anyway, enough of the 'Peewee'. Mine's bigger than yours anyway."

"Not from what I've seen. Prove it."

"Okay, but it will cost you if I'm right. You will have to pay a forfeit."


"That's the risk you'll have take. Are you on?"

"On," and they shook hands on it with Nigel stroking Marcus's palm with his forefinger and… to Nigel's utter astonishment receiving it back.

"Okay," said Nigel. "Tomorrow after lunch."


"Trust me."

Meanwhile they had reached the field where the rugby practice was drawing to a close. They made their presence known to Mr Plover. It was all part of a ploy to show how keen they were and to try and keep their team places. It was working as they fielded stray balls and helped to clear up afterwards; and, splitting hairs, they could claim to have attended the practice. Suddenly they thought, we can't get mud on our school uniforms twice in a week. Mr Plover ended the session by saying he had to think about the team and that it would be announced on the notice board the following day. Nigel and Marcus by turning up after their detention had certainly given him something to think about.

Friday and Marcus's black eye had reached the yellow stage. Morning school proceeded and in lessons Marcus and Nigel had become inseparable. Within less than a week implacable enemies had tacitly become best mates. Nigel still went on 'bonerwatch' with his new found friend, Marcus had accepted it, even nudging him when he was in 'display mode'. They ate lunch and afterwards left together and, keeping a watchful eye open to see that they weren't being followed, Nigel led Marcus round the back of the school to where the boiler house was situated. They went down some steps, Nigel peered through the frosted window to ascertain there was no light on, then produced from his wallet an expired credit card cut diagonally in half. He deftly inserted it into the crack between the lock and the latch and the door opened. The boys slipped inside, closing the door behind them.

Where did you learn that trick, Nigel? Do you come from a family of burglars?"

"Just one of those things you pick up along the way. Officially I keep in my wallet in case I forget my front door key." There was enough light coming through the window to save their switching the electric light on. The boiler was sufficiently noisy to cover any noise they might make. "Okay, Will, over to you."


"Well, you know what you're looking for. For goodness' sake, you don't expect me to do all the work, do you?" Nigel took out his handkerchief and stuffed it into the breast pocket of his blazer. With some hesitation at first Marcus unbuckled Nigel's belt, undid the clasp on his trousers and lowered the zip. Marcus was already boning up – no surprise there, but at least he had a reason this time. He looked at the bulge in Nigel's slip before pulling it down. He was amazed how hairy he was down there and immediately understood why he might have misjudged the length of Nigel's cock. He whipped out a six inch ruler from his blazer's inside pocket.

"See, Nigel? It's not even three inches."

"OMG, Marcus, do I have to do everything?" he said in a hoarse whisper, at which he started pulling his foreskin backwards and forwards. "Put your fingers under my balls and jiggle them. Like I did with yours… Ooh! Warm them first."

"Sorry." Nigel continued to work away at his foreskin and within less than a minute his cock had risen to its full length.

"Stick your ruler on that. Satisfied? Now you can call me Peewee as much as you like," he said as Marcus read out the measurement. "See? It's nearly off the scale. I'm a grower, not a show-er. Still, mustn't waste this." He clasped the shaft and began to wank himself off. He made such a good fist of it that he came very quickly, grabbing the handkerchief from his blazer pocket to catch the ejaculate. He put it to his nose and smelt it, then licked up a glob, rinsed it round his mouth as if he were savouring a vintage wine and swallowed.

"God, Peewee, you are absolutely disgusting."

"Don't knock it, until you try it."

Nigel tucked his dick away, letting his slip soak up any excess, zipped up his trousers and buckled the belt. "Okay, Marcus, your turn now."

"What? Me?"

"Sure. Remember the deal. I said you had to pay a forfeit and we shook on it."

"All right," said Marcus, not wanting to appear chicken.

He swiftly lowered his trousers, pulled his semi-hard dick through the slit of his boxers and rubbed it to full length.

"Hold it," said Nigel.

"I am holding it."

"That too. Give me your ruler. Look, yours is almost half an inch shorter than mine and you've been calling me Peewee."

"Well, it is when it's limp."

"Yeah, but it's when it's stiff that it does its work, not when it's in storage. Okay, get going and we can get out of here." Marcus started to pull his trousers up. "No, I don't mean that. You've got to wank it off like I did." Marcus did as he was told and caught his spunk in his handkerchief. Nigel dipped his finger in it and deposited it on his tongue. "Mmm, yours is a bit sweeter than mine." Marcus still wouldn't join in that part of the game.

Once Marcus had pulled his trousers up, Nigel produced a tennis ball from his blazer pocket, went to the door, opened it a crack and said "Come on, Marcus, it's all clear." They slid out of the door, closing it quietly behind them. They climbed the stairs and just as they got to the top who should come round the corner but Thomas, the prefect.

"What are you two doing down there? Scrapping again?"

"No, Thomas. We've made friends."

"So I see."

"We just went to retrieve my ball," said Nigel, showing the prefect the tennis ball. McLellan accidentally kicked it over the roof." Marcus coloured up, but Thomas wasn't to know that it was with indignation.

"You haven't been smoking down there, have you?"

"No, Thomas. You can smell our breath if you don't believe me."

"I don't think that will be necessary. Off you go and be more careful where you kick your ball next time."

"Thank you, Thomas." They scurried off. "Phew, that was close," said Nigel. Then suddenly:

"McLellan!" Marcus turned round to where Thomas's voice was coming from. "Zip your flies up, boy. You look as if you've been playing with yourself." He looked down and pulled up his zip.

"Thank you, Thomas." Then to Nigel. "Let's go and see if the team sheet's up yet."

As they walked towards the quad, Nigel said "Of course, Marcus, you know what your problem is, don't you?"

"Which one?"

"The one with the unwanted pop-ups."


"You wear boxers."

"But they're much more fashionable than Y-fronts."

"Maybe, but they don't stop your dick from poking out. Do you get boners during rugby and PE?"


"But they don't stick out. Why do you think that is?"

"Because I'm wearing a jockstrap."

"Could well be. Think it through."

There was quite a crowd round the sports notice board. "I don't think there is any need to push through to the front just to see our names down as reserves," said Marcus.

"No, but I want to see who he's selected to play instead of us." Slowly the crowd drifted away with remarks like 'That's not fair' and 'Thank goodness he didn't drop them.' When they eventually got to the board, their jaws dropped. They were in the team and in their usual positions. They highfived and bumped knuckles.

"Do you think they were talking about us?" asked Marcus.

After school the boys made their way to the detention room. They sat in a double desk together. One other boy was in detention. Mr Aynsworth was taking it.

"There are thirty seats in this room. Do you two have to sit together?" Nigel reluctantly got up and slumped into another seat. Sixty minutes of another excruciatingly boring session of copying out the school rules later, the boys left the detention room, relieved that they no longer had the threat of extra detentions hanging over them. They made their way to the bus stop. Marcus asked

"Peewee, you know we had a wank together in the boiler room? Does that make us gay?" Meanwhile they had reached the stop and Nigel's bus was two hundred yards away held up at the traffic lights.

"No, Marcus. It doesn't make you gay because we did it to ourselves and not to each other." The bus pulled up at the stop. The other passengers were getting on. "And it doesn't make me gay because I'm gay already." Nigel climbed onto the platform, the doors closed behind him and the bus quickly pulled away.

Nigel was sitting on the top deck pondering. Had he blown it with Marcus? He had no way of knowing until Monday. In the distraction and excitement of converting their relationship from enemies to friends, best friends even, they hadn't exchanged telephone numbers. Wait. He'd forgotten the rugby match the following morning. It was an away match. He must make sure he sat next to him on the coach. It would be pretty full with three teams and Marcus wouldn't be able to escape from him to another seat until they arrived at the other school. Make or break.

When he arrived home, Nigel was in a pretty thoughtful mood.

"Hi, Mum," he said absent-mindedly.

"Hallo, Nigel. Have you got that detention out of the way?" He nodded. "Are you playing rugby tomorrow?" He nodded again, but added a grunt this time. "What time?"

"Morning, away, we've got to be in school normal time for the coach."

"I've got your kit all washed and ironed. I was expecting it to be muddy after your practice yesterday." Nigel's face went red.

"No, we had to have a theoretical session in the classroom, you know, moves and tactics," he lied. "The groundsman wouldn't let us use the pitches because of the rain earlier," he added, compounding the lie. He'd got it in the neck already for one detention, but two in a week, he'd have got extra grief for that and fragile as he was, he just couldn't hack it at the moment. Then suddenly, apropos of nothing, he burst into tears.

Marcus was sitting on the top deck of the bus pondering. 'What was that Peewee said getting onto the bus? I'm sure he said he was gay, but the engine noise made it difficult to hear him. I'll ask him tomorrow when we meet for the match.' Marcus pondered some more. 'Hey, if he is, that's rather exciting. I wonder if that's why I get so many stiffies?' He was nursing one at that moment and he put his hand in his pocket to re-arrange it and when he had re-arranged it he began to stroke it through the lining of his trousers, thinking all the time about what he and Peewee had been doing in the boiler house. He'd enjoyed his first encounter of the homosexual kind. He was pleased that he had made it up with Peewee and he was still absolutely amazed that such a little dick could grow into such a monster. 'I want to see that again. Does that make me gay?' he asked himself, thinking back to the question he asked Fourbois on the way to the bus stop. 'If it does, I don't care, and I'm not on my own, providing Peewee and me stick together.'

He felt an unexpected surge in his dick and suddenly his boxers and trousers felt warm, sticky and damp. Deep in thought, he'd forgotten that he'd been stroking himself and now he'd have to explain that to his mother for they had to wear school uniform to school matches and for the second time in a week he needed clean trousers for the following morning.

Mrs Fourbois put her arm round Nigel's shoulder and guided him to a chair at the kitchen table. She made a pot of strong tea and poured a couple of mugs, passing one to her son.

"It's been a bad week, hasn't it? Do you want to talk about it?"

"It was a bad week, then a brilliant week, then a bad week again."

"You can tell me. I promise I won't get cross." Nigel thought.

"You already know about the fight and the detention. Well, Marcus and I made it up and became friends and then, just as I was getting on the bus to come home tonight, I accidently outed myself to him… and to anyone else who was listening."

"Outed yourself?"

"Told him I was gay."

"I must get used to all these words. And he didn't take it too well?"

"I don't know. The doors closed and the bus left. He catches a different bus."

"Can't you text him or catch him on Facebook, or whatever it is that you boys do?"

"We haven't exchanged digits."

"Exchanged digits?

"Swapped telephone numbers"

"Ah. But you'll see him in the morning, won't you?"

"Yes, but what if?…"

"Worry about that at the time and instead of twittering him, you can use that old fashioned method of communication called talking to one another." Nigel collapsed into another bout of tears. When they were over, his mother said "Okay, young man, have you got much homework tonight?"

"Not a lot."

"You can leave that and do it over the weekend, cool out…"

"Mum, it's chill out, not cool out."

"… I'll cook your favourite tea and then an early night so you'll be on top of things for your rugby. Where are you playing?" Nigel told her. "Dad and I will come along and watch the match. Then you can introduce us to Marcus."

"Okay, but only if everything's cool and if it's all right with you, I want come back on the coach with him."

"And if it's pants, you'll want to come back with us in the car?"

"Oh, Mum," and Nigel burst out laughing at his mother's attempt to use trendy jargon.

Marcus pushed the back door open and went into the kitchen. His mother was there and he quickly shifted his schoolbag to in front of his crotch. What was warm, wet and sticky was now cold, wet and sticky.

"Hallo, Marcus. Good day at school?"

"Detention apart very good. And I'm in the team tomorrow."

"Well, you're a regular now."

"Yees, but you're only as good as your last game. You can always be dropped." Marcus realised he had said too much.

"Sorry I can't come and watch you. I've got to work. Give your father a ring. Perhaps he can go."

"Okay. Can I have a yoghurt, please?"

"Yes, there are some in the fridge." Still clutching his bag to his lower abdomen, he took one out of the fridge without looking at the flavour, fetched a spoon and sat down at the kitchen table while his mother busied herself making a pot of tea. He peeled back the foil and took a couple of spoonfuls.


"Language, Marcus."

"Sorry, Mum. I've spilt this pot of yoghurt over my school trousers and I'll need the for the morning."

"Oh, Marcus, that's the second time I've had to wash them this week. In fact with all that yoghurt they'll have to go to the dry cleaner's."

"I'll never get them back for tomorrow."

"Don't worry. It's late night shopping and you're wearing those trousers at half mast these days. Promise me you'll stop growing and we'll get you a new pair and keep these for accidents. Have you got much homework tonight?"

"Not a lot."

"Good. You can get it done over the weekend."

"Since we're shopping, can I have some new underpants, please? When you get to my age, these boxers aren't particularly comfortable."

"I wouldn't know," replied Mrs McLellan innocently, but she did know. She remembered what adolescent girls, and not so adolescent girls were up to when they looked at boys, and wrongly on this occasion assumed that was why he'd been guarding his schoolbag so zealously. "We'll get you some new pants on one condition. You get your hair cut."

"I'll do it on Monday after school."

"You'll do it tonight while we're in town. You're getting to look positively girlie. If I'd wanted to give birth to a daughter, I would have done so."

"Come, come, Mother. You know you had no control over that whatsoever, and you a doctor."

"I still prefer a boy's boy."

"So do I," retorted Marcus without thinking.

"Freudian slip?" his mother teased.

"A what?"

"A Freudian slip. It's like a slip of the tongue, but it reveals what you're really thinking." Marcus blushed. "So does blushing," she laughed.

"Monday," said Marcus insistently, trying to get the conversation back on path.

"No underpants until after you've had your haircut."

"You drive a hard bargain. Okay, Mum."

"Get those trousers off and I'll get the worst of the yoghurt off and we'll drop them into the cleaner's when we're shopping."

"It's okay," Marcus said desperately. "I'll do it. I made the mess." The truth of the matter was that he could still smell the wet cum over the smell of the yoghurt.

Mrs McLellan and Marcus had tea and cleared away before getting into the car and driving off to the shopping mall. First stop the cleaner's. Second stop the barber's. Marcus had his hair shortened and styled. He wanted some streaks put in, but he didn't know how that would go down at school.

"You can have it done at the beginning of the summer holidays," said his mother. "They'll have grown out by September." Marcus had a hard-on underneath the smock. That was caused by the way Julian, his hairdresser, rubbed his half hard cock against Marcus's elbows as he walked round the chair. Of course, Marcus could have tucked his elbows in.

Third stop John Lewis. They took the escalator to the lower ground floor (or basement). A young man with dyed hair and a flamboyant tie contrasting with a charcoal suit was keen to serve them. When Mrs McLellan said "A pair of black school trousers for this young man," his face lit up.

"If you would come over here, sir, we had better measure you."

"Twenty-three inside leg, twenty-six waist," Mrs Fourbois quickly interjected.

"They grow so quickly at this age, madam. It's always best to make sure." The young salesman put his tape measure round Marcus's waist. "Correct, madam. Twenty-six waist with a little room for growth. Stand with your legs slightly apart, sir. That's right." He slid his tape measure up into Marcus's groin. Mrs McLellan thought he held it there longer than was necessary. Marcus enjoyed the feeling as the salesman's hand brushed against his balls. It reminded him of the best part of his fight with Peewee. "Twenty-five inside leg. Twenty-four actually, but inside leg only comes in odd sizes, waists in even sizes. It will allow for growth. We can always tailor them to twenty-four."

"No, thank you," said Mrs McLellan. "We need them rather urgently." The salesman produced a pair of trousers of the size, quality, colour and cut required. While Marcus was trying them on, he made small talk with his mother. Marcus returned.

"Put your shoes on, sir. Ah, yes. A perfect fit," he said using that as an excuse to run his fingers round the inside of the waist.

Marcus changed back and brought the trousers back with him.

"Now we'd like some underpants," said Mrs McLellan.

"May I choose them?" asked Marcus.

"As you're going to wear them, you may as well, but for hygiene reasons you won't be able to try them on, okay?"

The salesman took Marcus across to the racks of underwear while his mother took a seat. He returned with two packs of white Calvin Klein briefs, one with a scarlet waistband, the other with a royal blue waistband.

"Are two pairs enough?"

"They'll do fine." The salesman went off to zap the barcodes and pack the goods. "On Sunday when I'm at Dad's I'm going to show him the cartons and he can order another half dozen on the internet. He likes spending money on me to win my affection. I may as well have something I like."

"Marcus, I don't know where you get such deviousness from," said his mother, unable to suppress a smile. She paid and they left to return home.

Saturday morning and Nigel turned up at school and got out of his parents' car.

"We'll see you there, Nigel. We know where to go and your mother wants to do some shopping on the way. What time's kick off?"

"Ten o'clock. Don't forget we've got team lunch after. See you later."

Parents gone, he anxiously looked around for Marcus. Quite a few of the players were already there. No coach yet. A service bus drew up at the stop outside the school. When it drove off, he saw Marcus with his sports bag, so poised, so handsome. He could be a model, thought Nigel.

Marcus made straight for him. "Hi, Peewee. I nearly missed the bus. I had to run back home for my boots."

"Dork." So far so good, thought Nigel. The coach turned in through the school gates. Marcus kept close to him. Being the youngest team there, the U14s had to sit at the front of the coach while the 1 st XV reigned supreme in their rightful place at the back. With all aboard the coach departed.

Marcus had almost forced Nigel into the window seat, whereas Nigel had planned the opposite so that he couldn't escape.

"Marcus, you look different this morning, more beau…" He stopped himself in time. "More good loo…" He knew what he wanted to say, but didn't dare say it. "Neater."

"Mum made me have my hair cut last night. I took your advice and she bought me some briefs, but only on condition I had my hair cut."

"Suits you. Makes you look less girlie. I prefer a boy's boy." Marcus gave him a playful punch on the arm. "What's that for?"

"That's exactly what my mum said last night. It was a bit fraught last night. I had an accident. Tipped a pot of yoghurt over my school trousers and had to buy a new pair 'cause we couldn't get the others clean in time. Not sure I was too popular at home yesterday. Still my devious mother got her way with my hair."

The boys chatted away, which appeared to shorten the journey. They climbed out of the bus and followed the other teams' captains to the changing rooms. Marcus and Nigel got changed together. Nigel always got changed quickly. He sat on the bench waiting for Marcus, and the others, but that was incidental. Marcus appeared to be in no hurry. If he didn't know better, Nigel would have said that Marcus was putting on a striptease show for him. He was down to his undies, his new undies.

"Do you like them?"

"Do I like them? They're cool. I wondered on the bus why you weren't getting a boner."

"I got some boners all right. It's just they didn't poke out so much."

"If I can give you a tip, Marcus, now you've got proper briefs, wear your dick pointing north flat against your stomach. It won't show through your trousers then, but watch out your acorn doesn't chafe against the waistband. No, second thoughts, you'll be okay. Your wiener won't even reach it."

"Cheek, Peewee," said Marcus.

He stripped off his CKs and hid them in his trouser pocket. Nigel had seen him naked before often enough, but today there was something different about him. It was not a boy standing in front of him, but a youthful god, a young Adonis. Realising he had Nigel's attention he slowly pulled on his jockstrap, took time arranging his bits and pieces before finally getting dressed for the game. Nigel continued to stare at Marcus as he stood there. His kit fitted exactly. His shorts were short shorts, flared from the waist. It was easy to look up the legs and see the white bulge of his jockstrap contrasted against the navy blue of his shorts, and from another angle the neatly centred package.

Suddenly Nigel snapped out of his reverie. He had a game of rugby to play, a match to win and a place in next week's team to earn. There was nothing gay about him when he was in rugby mode.

The game was over. The visiting team had won and was being clapped off the field by the hosts. Nigel had scored a try; not only had Marcus scored a try, but he succeeded with a difficult conversion thanks to his skilled left footed kicking. At least that stopped the moaners that had groused about their selection being unfair. The visiting parents gathered round their sons.

"Marcus, come and meet my parents," Nigel said. He introduced him to them. While they were doing this, they didn't notice two well dressed men walking towards Marcus. As they were talking, one of them tapped him on the shoulder and said

"Well played, son. I'm very proud of you." Marcus turned round and said

"Thanks, Dad," and he introduced the two interlopers to the Fourbois family. "This is my father James and this is his partner Peter." There was some social chat for a couple of minutes, without any embarrassment, until the parents were directed towards the pavilion for tea and sandwiches and the boys to the changing rooms.

Standing together in the shower, Marcus said "I know what I'd like to do."

"But you're not going to," said Nigel. "We've been in enough trouble this week as it is and it'll be double trouble if we get caught doing it at another school."

"You know, Peewee, you ought to trim that bush of yours. You'd be surprised how much it would improve your appearance."

"What? Like you getting your hair cut?"

"Mmm, maybe."

"Marcus, I might just do it, but I'd have to buy a razor first."

"Well, you haven't got much to do tomorrow, have you?"

"Only all my homework."

"So have I. It's my week to visit my father. I'll have to do it there." At that Marcus pulled his foreskin back, stood facing the wall with his dick under the showerhead and his hands on his head, fingers interlaced, and let the water cascade over his revealed glans. Nigel watched open mouthed as his cock expanded and stood to attention and only by watching carefully could he eventually see the white gold dribbling out of Marcus's pee hole and being washed down the drain.

Clean, fed and happy the boys settled down on the coach which was half empty since several boys had gone home with their parents. Nigel and Marcus were sitting together, quite near the back this time. They could have been enjoying their hero status, especially as the U14s was the only visiting team to secure a win. "So, Marcus, your father has got a civil partner?"

"Yeah, that's why my parents are divorced… because he's gay."

"Do you mind?"

"What's there to mind? Well, nothing as far as them being gay is concerned, but there are some things I do mind. Being shunted around in the holidays, and at weekends because some court says it's for my good. I can't wait until I'm sixteen. The other is that my father has to impress me all the time, usually with money. I'm not stupid. I know who does all the work as far as caring for me is concerned. Mind you, it has its advantages as he'll find out tomorrow."

"In what way?" Marcus told the story of the CKs.

As they sat on the coach together, Nigel suddenly burst out laughing. "What's so funny, Peewee?"

"I'm just thinking back to the game. You wouldn't have noticed of course, but you know those fantastic shorts of yours? Where did you get them from?"

"The net."

"I wouldn't mind a pair like that. You look fabulous in them."

"I'll give you the web address, but what about them?"

"Well, every time you crouched down to put the ball in at the scrum, they rode up and showed half your butt cheeks, plus the straps of your jock which made them übersexy."

"Is that the story?" said Marcus.

"No, I'm coming to that. Stop interrupting. Every time you bent down, the other scrum half, instead of watching the ball, was staring at your bare arse."

"I thought he was a bit slow."

"Yes, but not only that, the referee, their master, got distracted by it, I mean by you, and he missed me being offside a couple of times. So, Marcus, your butt is our secret weapon."

"You make it sound as if I've got deadly fart that knocks people unconscious."

"Well, that too, but it only works in the classroom."

"Cheek," said Marcus and gave Nigel's nuts a squeeze in retaliation.

"Peewee, can I ask you a personal question?"

"You can ask what you like. I just might not answer."

"Did I hear right when you got onto the bus yesterday? Did you say you were gay?"

"That's right, but I didn't actually mean to announce it like that. They've known at home for ages. I think it was when I took up knitting and dressing dolls."

"Did you really?"

"No, you prat. I'm just taking the piss, but I am out at home. I suppose if your father's gay, you've got a fifty percent chance of being gay?"

"Ninety percent more like it. I'm working on it and I do have long chats about it with Dad and Peter, but whatever might be going on in my head, I have never done anything to another boy."

"We might have to do something about that then."

"I'm not ready to come out yet."

"I'm not talking about that," replied Nigel.

The boys noticed that they were getting near to school. "What are you doing this afternoon?"

"Mum's at work and so not much. I could do my homework, but I'm saving that for tomorrow to do at my dad's place – bit of a political decision really."

"Why don't you come and hang at my place? I promise I won't jump you," Nigel laughed.

"Stop it, Nige."

"I think I'd rather be called Peewee than Nige."

"Sorry, Peewee. It's like me. Never Mark or Markie, just Marcus."

"I'll give the 'rents a call." Nigel took out his mobile and dialled. "Hi, Mum. I'm on the coach. I'll be there in ten. All right if Marcus comes home with us? «…» He might need Dad's taxi to get home. «…» Thanks a lot. Cheers. **click** You're on. And that reminds me. We need to swap digits."

"And I need to text Mum to tell her where I am."

As the coach swung in through the school gates Nigel put his hand between Marcus's legs. "Mmm, something nice, hot and hard down there." **Sudden intake of breath**

"Don't do that, Peewee. I don't want to come off in my trousers two days running and have to spill another pot of yoghurt over them. And these are my new ones."

Nigel's parents took the two boys home in their car. "I take it you two don't want any more to eat for the moment," said Mrs Fourbois.

"No, thanks, Mum. We're still full of pie, beans and chips."

"What are you two going to do?"

"I need to go the shops," said Nigel "and then computer games. Is that all right with you, Marcus?"

"We're going to see Auntie Betsy this afternoon. We'll be back about five. You know where to find the snacks and drinks, if you're hungry, Nigel." Nigel changed out of his school uniform. Marcus took off his jacket and tie and put on his anorak.

As they walked to the shops Nigel said "I didn't know they were going to Auntie Betsy's this afternoon."

"Don't you get it?" said Marcus.


"They're being subtle… or not so subtle."

"Still don't get it."

"Gay son brings boy home for the first time. They're clearing the decks, getting out of our way."

"You don't think that they think that we're thinking of, er… doing stuff?" Marcus nodded. "As if…" Was that a glimpse of disappointment on Marcus's face?

"So, where are we going?"

"To the chemist's."

"You're not buying jonnies?"

"No, it's easier get them at the supermarket where you just take them off the shelves and hide them in your basket, then go through the self check out."

They went into the shop. "I want to get a razor and some shaving cream. I'm going to do the dirty deed with my pubes." When Nigel said that, it was as if by magic that all the conversations in the shop stopped and his voice boomed through the silence. His face went red as he suddenly became the focus of attention. The frame unfroze as life went on and he picked up a can of shave gel from the shelf.

"If I were you, I'd get a pack of dispersible razors," said Marcus. "They work out cheaper."

"I think I'll get the disposable ones," countered Nigel. "I can throw them away afterwards." Marcus gave him a friendly punch on the arm. Nigel took the goods to the counter and paid for them.

On the way home he said "What do I tell the 'rents? I can imagine the immediate and fast descent of a lead balloon if I said 'Hey, Mum, I've just shaved off all my pubic hair.'"

"Easy. You see this bum fluff on your upper lip?"

"Of course I can't see it. It's – on – my – upper – lip," he replied with sarcastic intonation and exaggerated looking down motions. Marcus stroked it with his finger.

"You just shave that off as well. Oh, and one more tip. The state you're in…"

"What do you mean the state I'm in? Your balls are going to get a serious scrogging in a minute."

"Mmm, nice. Do you admit you've got more hair down there than most fourteen year olds? You're chief Year 9 checker outer. You should know."

"Hmm," hummed Nigel.

"First of all trim them with scissors or the razor won't work very well. Then don't wash them down the sink or the shower plughole. They'll bung it up and you'll have to explain then. Either collect them in a dustpan and put them in the dustbin or flush them down the loo. On the other hand a real man would have them waxed."

"Oooh, nasty."

"And one more thing. Your mother has probably got in the bathroom cabinet some depilatory cream, called Vleet or something like that. Don't ever get that near your junk or your arse. You'll feel as if you're on fire and water won't put it out."

"Hey, Marcus, how come you know all this stuff?"

"Don't forget I have a gay father who's very out and feels it's his paternal duty to tell me all this to give me a balanced view. And he keeps me supplied with condoms and lube."

"Do you use them?"

"Sometimes. They make quite a good variation when you're having a wank."

"What time do you have to be home?"

"Any time. My mother has to work a twelve hour shift from 8 am. She does that on Saturdays and every other Sunday when I'm at Dad's. She says she can earn as much like that as in a normal five day week."

"What does she do?"

"She's a locum doctor at the local walk-in health centre."

The boys had arrived home. Nigel unlocked the door and they went in. "No credit card this time?" said Marcus.

"Nah, I've got my front door key."

Mr Fourbois took Marcus home at about six o'clock. Nigel went for the ride. When they arrive back, Mrs Fourbois said "Marcus seems a nice boy, Nigel. I'm pleased you invited him home. You don't seem to have a lot of friends."

"I know," sighed Nigel, "but lots of acquaintances, as Dad says."

"What's he done to his eye?" asked his father. "Did he do that in the rugby match?"

"Crikey," answered Nigel. "A week's such a long time ago. Marcus is the boy I had a fight with. I didn't think to tell you." His mother and father looked at one another as if to say 'boys will be boys', but they remained silent.

This Monday was a far more auspicious beginning to the week than the previous one. In the RE class the essays on 'Love your enemies' were returned and both Marcus and Nigel were cited for thoughtful writing and they received top marks. The divinity master said their essays read as if they were writing from the heart and experience, which caused some exaggerated coughing from the back of the room. The 'your' and the 'thine' were easily explained. 'Ye' was the plural of 'thou', 'you' the plural of 'thee', 'your' the plural of 'thy', and 'thy' became 'thine' before a vowel like 'a' became 'an'.

Tuesday was a day of revelation. Nigel and Marcus were changing next to one another for PE when Nigel went 'Ta da' and showed that his nether regions were completely devoid of hair.

"Bravo," said Marcus. "I never realised that you had balls and your prick really is normal size."

"You only needed to ask and you could have felt my balls for free." Unfortunately Nigel had drawn himself an audience. Some wit in the crowd started to quote the Danny Kaye version from Hans Christian Andersen's The Ugly Duckling singing:

'Till a flock of swans spied him there and very soon agreed. You ' re a very fine swan indeed!'

'A swan? Me a swan? Ah, go on!'

Nigel didn't know whether to laugh or cry, but as everyone fell about and were making nice remarks, he decided to go with the former. Everyone joined in the last verse with ' I'm not such an ugly duckling …' until they got a bollocking from the PE master for too much noise and not enough changing.

Wednesday brought another surprise or rather two. While they were waiting for the German lesson to begin, Marcus produced a carton in a paper bag from his backpack. "Hey, Peewee, would you like one of these?"

"What's that?"

"A pair of CKs like mine."

"Don't you want them?"

"You know I said I'd get my father to order me half a dozen on the net? Well, he suffered an FFS moment…"


"Fat Finger Syndrome – and hit the 9 rather than the 6 and these arrived yesterday and I thought it was too long to wait until Christmas to give them to you."

"Yeah, sure," answered Nigel hesitantly. "As long as you think it's all right. I don't want to get you into trouble. Thank you," and he slipped the package into his bag.

"Also Mum said…" At that moment the lesson began. "Tell you at break."

Break found the two boys standing in front of the urinal trough having a sword fight. "Marcus, what were you going to tell me at break about what your mum said?"

"Oh, yes, I almost forgot. You know on Saturday it's an afternoon match and we're playing St Saviour's College and it's miles away so we'll be home late?"


"Mum wondered whether you would like to come back home with me and sleep over." Nigel's face brightened up.

"I'll have to ask my parents first, but if it's okay with them, yes, please."

By the time Friday came along Nigel was getting rather excited. He came home from school to find a postal packet wrapped in a plastic envelope with the label 'GB Sportswear' waiting for him. Ah, I know what that is, he thought. "Hi, Mum."

"Hi, Nigel. Good day at school?"

"Fine, thanks."

"Are you in the team tomorrow?"

"Yep, and so's Marcus."

"Okay, I'll tell you what's happening. I've been on the telephone to Mrs McLellan – Dr McLellan I suppose we ought to call her…"

"No, Mum. She just uses that professionally. She prefers to be called Mrs and 'Ms' is a big no-no."

"Anyway, the plan is that Dad and I will be coming to St Saviour's to support you both. Then as it will be quite late once you've had tea and everything, we'll drive you two boys straight to Marcus's place. Mrs McLellan's going try and get off work a bit early. Does that sound all right to you?"

"Yeah, great."

"So you'll need to pack your overnight bag tonight and put it into the car boot, then pack your rugby kit separately and keep it with you. Okay?"


"So that you don't end up in the changing room with your weekend clothes and your kit in the boot."


Nigel hurried off up to his room so that he could get on with his homework. He didn't want that hanging over him and he didn't know what time he'd be getting home on Sunday. First of all he undid the packet. He pulled out a new pair of navy blue rugby shorts, just like the ones Marcus wore. Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, he thought. As he unfolded them, some things fell out: a catalogue and three heavy duty sports thongs, one navy and two white.

He had to admit to himself that it was a tremendous turn on to see Marcus's butt cheeks revealed by his shorts, but the straps of his jock showing, while rather sexy were also inelegant and not for him. So he ordered himself two thong supporters and one which he would give to Marcus, a return present for his CKs, but certainly not until after tomorrow's match. He looked at the despatch note. Not bad prices, he thought. Good use of my birthday money. I'd better ask Mum to sew some nametapes on them. Then his eyes opened wide. He casually read down the page to the small print at the bottom where it gave all the legal details of the firm. Why he did it, he had no idea, but there it was: 'GB Sportswear ®, trading as Gay Boy Sportswear Ltd' followed by the address, phone numbers and company registration number. Interesting that Marcus uses that firm. I wonder if he found it or whether his father put him onto it. Forgetting his homework, Nigel leafed through the catalogue. They had some nice kit there. It was obvious their marketing was directed at the pink pound and he realised why Marcus wore such attractive clothes. Is he or isn't he? Maybe I'll find out this weekend.

"Nigel!" There was a shout up the stairs. "Tea's ready."

"Okay, I'll be down. I'll just wash my hands first." He needed to get rid of a boner before he appeared in the dining room. Whoops! He hadn't even started his homework.

It had been a gruelling match and what had been more frustrating was that it ended in a draw. A day that had started sunny ended in that fine rain, finer than drizzle, that penetrated everywhere and everything and turned the rugby ball into a piece of soap. The matches against St Saviour's College were always hard. It was a Roman Catholic school and rumour had it that if they lost a match the boys were made to go to confession by the priests that were their masters and do a penance. In the bad old days that penance was a beating. Marcus and Nigel wondered what happened after a draw.

Nigel's new rugby shorts were a great success. Not only did he feel great in them, but they attracted a lot of admiring glances, one or two from his own teammates, others from some of the priests lining the pitch dressed in their black cassocks and chain-smoking, and noticeably Irish from their accents.

Marcus forwent doing his party piece in the showers, fearing that he might be dragged off to the confessional if he got caught.

It was five o'clock before the Fourbois family with Marcus got away from St Saviour's, nearly seven when they drew up outside the McLellans'. There were no lights on which showed that Mrs McLellan hadn't arrived home yet. The boys got out and said goodbye, Nigel remembering to take the correct bag and his sleeping bag from the boot. Marcus let him into the house which was cosy and warm. They went upstairs and changed out of their school uniforms into polo shirts and jogpants. They went back down and into the sitting room. Marcus switched on the television and the boys sat together on the settee.

An hour later Mrs McLellan let herself in and went into the sitting room to find two boys fast asleep, one with his arm round the other's shoulder, the second one with his round the other's waist. They were watching, or rather not watching, Ant and Dec on the television. She took a picture with her smartphone, dimmed the lights, turned down the volume and disappeared into the kitchen to prepare some food for when the sleeping beauties eventually woke.

"Did you enjoy your sleep, boys?" asked Mrs McLellan as she went into the sitting room to tell them that supper was ready and that they were eating in the kitchen. Their eyes flickered as they came to and neither boy made any effort to pull apart. Marcus's mother made no comment, but he knew that didn't mean that she hadn't noticed anything, either.

They chatted over supper. Christine McLellan wanted to get to know this boy whom only a fortnight ago her son had detested. He hadn't mentioned to his mother that Nigel had announced that he was gay. It didn't matter. He had accepted the fact his father was gay, even if she was finding it difficult to. It was simply something he had grown up with and why should he worry about Peewee?

"You shouldn't call Nigel that name, Marcus," she said in full knowledge of what it implied.

"It's all right, Mum. He said I could."

"H-a-l-l-o! I'm here," said Nigel.

"Sorry, Peewee," said Marcus and put his arm round Nigel's shoulder. The McLellans had grown too comfortable with there only being just the two of them on most occasions.

"I'm sorry too," said Mrs McLellan. "As an only child do you find your parents talk about you as if you're not there?"

"Yes, except that I'm not an only child. I've got a big sister who's away at university." Mrs McLellan realised that she had committed two faux pas in two minutes.

"You've never mentioned her," said Marcus.

"Who?" replied Nigel, trying to inject a little humour into the suddenly tense atmosphere.

"Your sis…" Marcus broke off, realising he'd been trapped and gave Nigel a friendly punch on the arm.

"Not at the meal table, Marcus. You don't want another detention for fighting."

"No, Mum," he replied in a placatory tone. 'But I wouldn't say no to a good scrogging session,' he thought, keeping that thought to himself. Marcus remained silent for a few moments, wondering what would happen once they were ensconced in his bedroom for the night.

"A penny for your thoughts, Marcus," said his mother. He blushed.

"You'd have to pay a bit more than a penny for these thoughts," he said. "Ten pounds minimum." Mrs McLellan decided to change the subject and asked about the rugby match.

"Was your father there?"

"Not this week. He only comes on the weekends I'm due to spend with him."

Supper proceeded to its natural conclusion and after helping Marcus's mother to clear away the boys said they were going up to bed as it had not only been a hard week, but also a particularly strenuous rugby match.

"You can sleep in tomorrow morning, dears. There's nothing to get up for." They said good night and Mrs McLellan kissed Marcus. 'I wouldn't mind doing that,' thought Nigel.

Once in Marcus's room Nigel laid out his sleeping bag on the camp bed that had been provided for him. The boys got undressed and before putting on their pyjamas, Marcus said "Let me see where you shaved. Mmm, that's much better. Stops that gorilla look."

"Do you think so?" responded Nigel in a sarky tone.

"Sorry, I didn't mean it like that," said Marcus as he took him in a hug. Nigel took the opportunity to give Marcus's balls a brief feel as an act of consolation and reconciliation for the gorilla remark. They looked each other in the eye and smiled, then got on with getting ready for bed. After a trip to bathroom they got into bed and Marcus left just his bedside lamp on. The room was warm, but not too warm, and they felt snug, Marcus under his duvet and Nigel in his sleeping bag. They chatted away, mainly about the match and about a couple of boys they had seen in the dining room that had attracted their attention. They wondered what they were going to do tomorrow and Marcus hoped his mother didn't have anything planned for them. After a busy week at school they just wanted to chill out and do nothing.

Then Marcus said rather tentatively "You know when we were in the boiler room at school, Peewee?"

"I'm not going to go there again," he answered. "Too risky with people like Thomas around. I'm sure he's keeping an eye on us."

"No, we'll have to find somewhere else," suggested Marcus.

"Do you mean you want to do it again?" asked Nigel.

"Well, that's what I was going to ask. I badly need to service the equipment. I haven't done it since this morning, not even in the showers after the match, and I know I won't get to sleep unless I do it tonight, and besides that I've got raging stiffie that just won't go down. I was wondering if you'd mind if I had a wank… er, seeing as we did it together before."

"Do you mind if I have one as well?" asked Nigel. "Same reason. I won't get to sleep unless I do."

"Let's do it together," suggested Marcus and he tossed a box of tissues across onto Nigel's bed.

After the evil deed was done the two boys lay on top of their beds, enjoying the afterglow.

"Hey, Marcus, do you want to know a secret?"

"What secret?"

"Promise you won't tell anybody else?"

"Promise." Nigel started to whisper in a conspiratorial manner. "Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night and have to have another one. Then I have to have another one in the shower before breakfast. I think that's why I don't get so many boners as you at school."

"I think not," replied Marcus in mock indignation.

"You've got to tell me a secret now."

"Mmm. Difficult, Peewee. I've got so many," exaggerated Marcus pretentiously.

"Go on. Think of one."

"Weeell," he said slowly, "promise you won't tell a soul?" Nigel nodded. "When I'm jerking off, I close my eyes and imagine I'm in the showers at school, sometimes after rugby, sometimes after PE, and all the boys there are jerking off. But there's one in particular and I walk across, stand behind him and I'm just about to take hold of his prick and then suddenly it's as if I wake up and sometimes I've had a wet dream. It's very hard to tell the difference between waking and sleeping."

"And is it the same boy every time?"


"Who is it?"

"I can't tell you who it is. I don't know what would happen if he ever found out. He might never speak to me again." At this Marcus blushed as he might have said too much already.

"Marcus, do you ever eat your spunk?"

"I didn't know you could. Isn't that like drinking piss and eating shit?"

"I don't know. I've never consumed piss or shit. Anyway, occasionally if I'm in the mood, I do."

"What does it taste like?"

"Hard to describe. It's a funny taste, something like the smell of bleach. Sometimes it's sweet, sometimes it's salty."

The boys were beginning to feel drowsy. "Let's get some kip," said Marcus. He put out his bedside light and snuggled under the duvet. Nigel crawled down inside his sleeping bag.

Just before nine on Sunday morning Christine McLellan tapped lightly on Marcus's door. Getting no reply she put her head round the door and smiled, pulled it to without closing it and went to find her phone. She came back and took a couple of snaps with it of two boys lying side by side, fast asleep in her son's bed. She closed the door quietly and went off downstairs.

An hour later two boys, wide awake and freshly showered, appeared in the kitchen. "Good morning, Marcus, good morning, Nigel," said Mrs McLellan cheerfully. "How did you sleep?"

"Very well, thanks, Mum. We were very tired after that match."

"Was your bed comfortable, Nigel?"

"Very, thanks," he answered. Mrs McLellan raised an eyebrow. "I think I shall have to get a new sleeping bag, though. Mine didn't keep me very warm." Eyebrow was lowered.

"You should have asked Marcus to get you a blanket."

"Thank you, Mrs McLellan, but he was fast asleep and I didn't want to disturb him." Nigel could say all this with a straight face. It was slowly dawning on the boys why she was asking all these questions. She knew. The boys gave each other a look and Nigel nodded.

"Oh, you're wondering, Mum, why we were sleeping in the same bed? Why didn't you ask straight out?" It was Mrs McLellan's turn to blush. Nigel stood there open mouthed. His friend was so open about it. "You're a doctor. Standard first aid to stave off hypothermia."

"Of course, dear. I should have realised." All three laughed, more as a form of relief from any embarrassment than because they found it funny.

"And we didn't have sex, either." At that Mrs McLellan showed them the pictures she had on her phone.

"Can you e-mail them to me, please, Mum?

"Marcus, dear, you obviously haven't switched on your computer this morning."

Mrs McLellan looked at the clock on the kitchen wall. "Now what are you two planning to do today?"

"Absolutely nothing," answered Marcus. "We just want to chill… unless you know differently?"

"No, you need your leisure time. Boys your age need time to themselves. So it will be full Sunday lunch at about one…" 'That was where Dad could never win over Mum,' thought Marcus. 'Him and Peter try, but on more occasions than not we end up going to the pub for lunch.' "… and so I recommend a light breakfast. What time are you expected home, Nigel?"

"At about six o'clock, if that's convenient."

"And I'm duty taxi driver, if I remember correctly."

And so Nigel and Marcus spent the day doing exactly that, feasting on a superb Sunday roast of pork, idling, relaxing, sleeping, with a brief game of football in the back garden. After breakfast they had gone up to Marcus's room to see the pictures sent from his mother's phone to his computer. Marcus burst out laughing when he saw the one of them in bed together. He enlarged the picture and zoomed in on part of the duvet where could be seen a distinct tent. Nigel took the mouse and scrolled across until a similar one could be seen on Marcus's side of the bed, which caused more mirth. When the bewitching hour came, Nigel was taken home and Marcus went along for the ride. Christine McLellan popped in quickly so that she could meet Nigel's parents and told them that he would be welcome to sleep over again, at the weekend or in the school holidays, of course.

Marcus slipped into the front seat of the car for the journey home. "You're very fond of that boy, aren't you, Marcus?" He pondered for a moment before replying.

"Yees, I suppose I am. What I can't work out is that a month ago I hated his guts and here we are best buddies."

"It's called adolescence or puberty."

"As a paediatrician, Mum, you'll be able to explain that."

"It's like explaining the inexplicable. When a young person changes into an adult – and I say young person because it applies to girls just as much as to boys – when someone changes into an adult he undergoes great changes within a short time span. Now everybody concentrates on growth spurt, sexual maturity, body shape, voice breaking, acne, hair sprouting, because they can see or hear that. What they can't see or hear are the great emotional and mental upheavals a person undergoes and what people can't see or hear or touch, they don't understand. That's what has happened to you… and Nigel, of course. You've got a surplus of hormones pumping round your body and they make you feel different, think differently, make you unpredictable. Parents know about this, but even doctors can only generalise about it and say it approximately follows a pattern and so it is quite normal for an emotion such as hatred, given the right conditions, to turn into one of like, or even love." Christine knew she was pushing the boundaries by saying 'love', but perhaps she knew a little more about Marcus than he did himself.

Marcus pondered what his mother had told him and eventually managed to ask the question which was at the back of his mind. "Mum, do you think I am growing up to be like Dad?"

"You mean homosexual?"

"Yes, gay."

"I have to admit there is a possibility, but it is too early to give you a definite answer. You are still changing and it could be a phase."

"When will I know?"

"You'll know all right, but I can't say when. It could be next week or when you're twenty or even older. Is it worrying you?" Again Marcus cogitated for a while.

"No, I don't think it is. It goes back to Dad. I don't want to make the same mistake."


"Meaning that I don't want to create a family and then break it up because I've married a person of the wrong sex."

This gave Christine McLellan a jolt, so much so that she had to brake sharply to avoid shunting the car in front. It also shocked her to think that this was a fourteen year old boy speaking. She knew the pain of her marriage breaking up, but had not understood Marcus's pain at the divorce. "Do you mind if we pull in for a moment, if we're going to continue this conversation?"

"No, Mum," he answered cheekily. "I'd rather get home in one piece." She pulled into the car park of a nearby pub.

"Do you want to go in here and have something to eat?"

"What? With all that cold pork at home waiting to be put in a sandwich?"

"It'll make your skin greasy. Then you'll have zits."

"I'll survive. Anyway, that's what Dad would do."

"Marcus, I'm going to ask you a question which ethically I ought not to ask. Do you love your father?" Again he had to think.

"Yes," he replied with a certain amount of hesitancy. "I love him because he is my father, because he created half of me, because of that bond. I don't love him in the way I love you. You're part of my life. He's on the edge of it. If he emigrated to Australia tomorrow, I wouldn't miss him… and I certainly wouldn't miss the weekends I have to spend with him." Christine wanted to ask questions, but she had the sense to let him speak his mind. "He loves Peter more than he loves me. I'm his status symbol. 'This is my son Marcus. He's the one that scored that try in the corner. He got a very good report last term.' He lives by my achievements."

"He's very generous to you."

"Yes, but he's buying love, not giving it, don't you see? I love Nigel more than Dad."

As soon as he'd said it, Marcus realised what he had said and bit his lip. In the ensuing silence Christine put her arm round his shoulder and kissed him on the cheek. She switched on the engine and drove the rest of the way home.

Marcus realised that he had let two cats out of the bag. He had dissed his relationship with his father and had blurted out his feelings for Peewee, feelings he had not yet uttered to Peewee for fear of frightening him away.

Nigel's mother had saved tea for when he'd got back from his sleep over. They sat round the table in the dining room munching away on sandwiches and cake. The sandwiches she had made with butter and the remains of the joint of beef that had been served for their lunch.

"So how did you enjoy your weekend, Nigel?" asked his father.

"Great," Nigel spoke in the long tradition of the adolescent's mode of monosyllabic communication.

"What did you do?"

"Nothing in particular really. We slept late and then just relaxed. We played a bit of football in the garden, played computer games."

"And this is the boy you gave a black eye to a month ago?" his father continued, trying to make sure that he was on top of the plot.

"I used to hate him," confessed Nigel.

"Why was that?" enquired his mother.

"He used to call me names and tease me." Diplomatically he refrained from calling his ex-enemy a prick teaser who teased him by displaying frequent tents in his trousers.

"And he doesn't any longer?" asked Mrs Fourbois.

"He doesn't call me names any more and he doesn't tease me." Nigel sat there with a vision of Marcus's tented trousers. Those occasions had been drastically reduced since he'd been wearing his new CKs. "Well, maybe he teases me occasionally, but now it's in fun and I tease him back."

Nigel continued munching his sandwiches in the ensuing silence, then suddenly "Mum, Dad, I want to ask you something." Father and mother gave each other a look. "You know I'm gay… now I'm fourteen I wondered if I could have…" He was plucking up courage to say the word. "I was wondering if I was old enough to have… er… a boyfriend." Another exchange of glances. Before his parents could answer, he added "Annabelle had a boyfriend when she was fourteen."

His father was about to say 'But that was different,' when his mother's glare silenced him.

"Have you anybody in mind?" she asked.

"Might have," Nigel replied with a huge beam across his face.

"Is he gay too?"

"Might be. Dunno. But his father is."

"Is it anyone we know?"

"Oh, yes, you've met him." Silence. "If he is… even if he isn't, can I ask him?"

"Yes," said his mother, "but you will be careful, won't you, dear? I don't want you getting into another fight."

"I don't think we will this time. And can he come for a sleep over?"

"One step at a time, Nigel. Get yourself a boyfriend first. Has everyone had enough to eat?" asked Mrs Fourbois to announce, especially to her husband, that tea was over and the discussion closed.

It really was one step at a time, and slow steps at that. Nigel didn't mention the word 'boyfriend' to his parents or to Marcus for a couple of weeks or so. There was a different hurdle on the horizon. Although Marcus and Nigel spent a lot of time together at school and they visited each other's home they didn't fix up another sleep over. It was hinted, particularly by Mrs McLellan that she might like to spend more time with her son. Although the Fourboises had a similar idea, it was perhaps not quite so important to them. Mrs McLellan had to share her son with an absentee ex-husband. Half term was fast approaching and Annabelle Fourbois was going to have a break from university for a weekend with her parents.

The first weekend of half term Marcus was due to spend with his father and without school matches to interfere with the weekend James McLellan would demand his full parental rights. Marcus was the least of his concerns. Scoring points off his ex-wife and feeding his own ego were much greater priorities. Marcus was dreading half term, but then he was struck by the spark of an idea. It was a long shot, but if it were to be successful, that would drastically alter the dynamics of the situation. Showering after games Marcus asked "Peewee, what are you doing over half term?"

"Not a lot. My sister's coming home from uni for the weekend and so we might do something special. But she usually wants just to catch up on sleep and be fed properly. Mum and Dad have to work during the week. So I can probably please myself, you know, swimming, ten pin bowling, the usual stuff… Oh god, Marcus, you really are gross at times." He was practising his party piece and once his classmates caught sight of him with his hands on head, they gathered round and encouraged him with a rhythmic hand clapping.

Driven on by the kudos of a successful conclusion to his party piece, Marcus had chosen to stand on the bench in the changing room to dry off. "Now, Peewee, what were we talking about? Ah, yes, half term." Marcus's slowly decreasing prick was at face level with Nigel and besides the natural distraction it looked as he was talking to it. "I'm in this awful position where I not only have to spend the first weekend with my father, but because there are no school commitments I have to go off Friday evening and come back Monday morning." Nigel could see that Marcus didn't like the idea. "It was just that I was wondering… I don't know, it might be difficult… I was wondering whether you'd like to come for a sleep over. It would take the pressure off and I think it could be quite fun. What do you think?"

"I don't know what my parents would say, but with Annabelle at home it might just be easier."

"And I haven't dared yet to mention it to Dad, but if you'd like to, I'll ring him tonight."

"I'd like to and it might be quite interesting to stay in a gay household for a couple of nights."

"Oh, it'll be interesting all right."

"But I'm not going to mention that bit at home…"

"Why the hell don't you suck it, Fourbois, you're close enough?" That was Darren Logge, famed for his homophobic feelings and little else.

"Piss off, Logge," our two boys said in unison.

"Language, ladies," he said as he turned away.

Later that evening Nigel felt a vibration in his trouser pocket. He took his mobile out, looked at the screen and read «OK with Dad. M.» He went down to the sitting room where his parents were watching Coronation Street . Fortunately the adverts came up just at that moment and so he could speak and expect a reasonable answer. "Marcus's asked me to sleep over at his Dad's for the first weekend of half term. Can I say yes?" Father looked at mother. "He's got to stay there anyway and he says it's boring on his own, but if he had a friend with him at least they could do things together."

"You know Annabelle's coming home that weekend?" said his mother.

"Yes, but she won't want to see me in particular. She'll be out catching up with her old schoolfriends."

"I suppose so," said his mother, "but get Marcus to ask his father to phone us with the arrangements."

"Thanks, Mum," and as he ran out of the room to go upstairs the programme began again.

He took out his phone and hit the autodial button for Marcus. "Hi, Marcus. The answer's yes, but will you get your dad to phone Mum to make the arrangements?"

«Hey, that's great. Have I got your landline number?» Nigel waited while Marcus wrote it down.

"And tell him not to ring until Coronation Street finishes if he wants a sensible conversation."

«That's all right. Dad and Peter watch it. I can't work out why. See ya at school tomorrow. Luv ya,» **click** and the phone went dead.

Now that the arrangements had been made, the fast approaching half term seemed to be taking an eternity to arrive. Finally the Friday before came. Nigel and Marcus rushed out of school to catch a bus as soon as possible. Nigel got indoors, said hallo to his big sister, then went upstairs to shower and change. Before he got into shower, he decided he would shave his groin. He must look his best for Marcus. A glance in the mirror told him he should have had his hair cut. He looked at his watch. Pick up time was six. Yes, he had time to get it cut, no, he didn't have time to have it styled. He'd have to wait until Monday.

His mother had packed a small suitcase for the weekend. He took that and his sleeping bag down to the hall and parked them by the front door. Now he had time for a cup of tea. "Do you want anything to eat?" asked his mother.

"No, thanks. We're supposed to be having something when we get there. And I'll have had breakfast when we get back on Monday morning."

"So, Nigel," said Annabelle "tell me what you've been getting up to while I've been away."

"Nothing much. Just school… and rugby."

"No fights?" Nigel coloured up. He'd almost forgotten about the fight, so many other things had happened as a consequence, and that is why he had blushed. "No boyfriend?" she said teasingly.

"No, just a new best friend. Marcus. The one whose father we're staying with this weekend."

"And what happened to the old best friend?"

"You can have more than one best friend," protested Nigel, "except there wasn't an old best friend before Marcus." They heard a toot outside. Seconds later there was a ring at the front door and Marcus stood on the doorstep. "Bye, Mum. Bye, Dad. Bye, Annabelle."

"Have a good time," his mother called back.

Nigel carried out his case and sleeping bag and put them into the boot of James McLellan's car beside Marcus's small holdall. "You haven't got much luggage, Marcus."

"I don't need it. I keep a whole lot of clothes and things at Dad's place. It saves me packing." The boys got into the car and Nigel said good evening to Mr McLellan.

"Call me James," said Marcus's father. "My husband you can call Peter, and we'll call you Nigel, or do you prefer Peewee?"

"Only Marcus calls me Peewee," retorted Nigel who was surprised at how bossy he sounded.

"There are historical reasons for that," giggled Marcus.

"I won't ask," replied his father.

James's home was a flat in a luxury block. When he had parked in the underground car park, he opened the boot. "You can leave the sleeping bag there, Nigel," he said as he was about to pick it up. "You won't be needing it." Marcus grinned.

They stepped out of the lift, walked along a well lit corridor and as the reached the flat the door opened and Peter stood there smiling. "Hello, Marcus. How are you?" Marcus resisted a hug and just answered

"Fine, thanks, Peter."

"Hi. You must be Nigel," said Peter offering him a rather limp hand. "We met at a rugger match once, I believe." Nigel stifled a snigger. 'Who calls it 'rugga' these days?' he thought. 'I'm going to have some fun this weekend, even if Marcus isn't.'

Nigel was surprised at how large the flat was. It was light and the interior design was first class. "I'm afraid we only have two bedrooms," said Peter. "We're not planning any children after Marcus," he continued in a deadpan voice. Nigel knew he was undergoing a sense of humour test, but for the moment he kept his powder dry. Marcus was looking decidedly displeased. "So you'll have to bunk down with Marcus."

"He said you wouldn't mind," said James. "That's our bedroom and we ask you to respect our privacy. Otherwise make yourself at home and enjoy the run of the flat." Marcus took Nigel into his room. Nigel's eyes opened wide when he saw the size of it. It doubled as a study.

"I always make sure I have a lot of homework to do when I'm here alone," Marcus said in a low voice. Nigel looked around. He could not fail to notice the large double bed that dominated the room – no sign of a camp bed. A huge flat screen television was mounted on the wall. On the study top was a large iMac, again with a flat screen. The room was far better appointed than the one Marcus had at his mother's, yet he preferred it there.

"Dump your stuff in the wardrobe. Just slide those mirror doors. That other door leads into the shower room and toilet." After that the boys went through to the living room and found that Peter had prepared them a meal in the kitchen.

The conversation was flowing over supper. Nigel sensed that Marcus had an attitude problem simply from being there, but he was trying to suppress it, which made Nigel wonder what he was like when he was not trying to suppress it. He learnt that James was a doctor at the hospital and that Peter was the managing director of a company that specialised in interior design, which explained why the appointments of the flat were so fashionable and interesting and how Marcus's parents must have originally met. Over the evening Nigel warmed to Peter. He reserved judgement on James. Finally Marcus announced that he and Nigel were going to watch TV in his room then turn in for the night. The two said good night and Nigel followed Marcus into his room.

"Phew, thank God for that," said Marcus, giving a sigh of relief, closing the door behind them. He took hold of Nigel by both hands, looked into his eyes and said "Thank you for being here. You don't appreciate how much it helps. Without you it would have been complete hell. Do you want to watch television, Peewee?"

"Not really. There's something I'd much rather be doing," said Nigel with a wink. "Let's go to bed."

They started to get undressed. "Oh, bother," said Nigel. "I've forgotten to pack my pyjamas."

"You can borrow mine, if you like."

"Then you won't have any to wear."

"I never wear them here. I have to at home because of Mum."

"Then I won't either."

"Do you know something, Peewee? I don't feel in the least tired now."

"Funny, neither do I."

"Do you feel like playing a game?"

"What? A computer game?"

"Nah. I was thinking more along the lines of Spanking the Monkey ."

"Okay," said Nigel, "but you'll have to remind me of the rules."

"Well, for a start we ought to play doubles instead of singles."

"How do you do that?"

"Basically it's very easy," explained Marcus. "I spank yours and you spank mine."

"I've never played that rule before, but I'm prepared to give it a go."

Marcus pulled back the duvet and naked both boys climbed onto the bed. They didn't have to warm up. They were both as hard as rocks. They snuggled up together, put an arm round the other's shoulders and used the spare hand to jiggle the other's balls and stroke his cock. They made a perfect match as Nigel was right-handed and Marcus was left-handed. At first, since this was exploratory, they were gentle with one another. Then Nigel suddenly stopped, turned and looked Marcus in the eyes saying "Have you ever kissed a boy?"

"What? On the lips?" asked Marcus.

"Uh huh."

"No, never. Boys don't do that. It sounds a bit gay to me."

"Well, we are gay, aren't we?"

"I've never said that," protested Marcus.

"I haven't kissed anyone, except relations of course, and that's yeuky, but I'd really like to kiss a boy." Nigel leaned over and his lips met Marcus's, lingered and for some inexplicable reason he did something he never thought likely. Uninstructed, he slipped his tongue in between Marcus's lips until it met his tongue. Both their bodies experienced a feeling of exhilaration they had never felt before, their cocks were harder than they had ever been and they felt as if they just wanted to eat one another. It all finally ended when their loins exploded and they had to clear up the mess as it went cold.

Marcus dimmed the lights. They pulled up the duvet and lay there in each other's arms enjoying a great feeling of contentment, of achievement, not talking, not needing to talk. Eventually Nigel broke the silence, turned to his friend and whispered intimately "Now tell me you're not gay. You've even got a boyfriend to prove it," and they both fell asleep that instant.

Nigel woke up during the night. From the light of the streetlamps coming through the curtains he could just make out that it was coming up to midnight. What had woken him were the muffled sounds penetrating the wall from the adjacent bedroom. At first he was alarmed until he realised what was making them. He nudged Marcus. "Are you awake?"

"I am now," he replied wearily.

"Can you hear that noise?"

"I try not to. I have to listen to that every night I spend here. Sometimes two or three times a night." The violence committed against the bedsprings was increasing as was the intensity of the 'oohs' and 'aahs'. "It's all right. It's Dad and Peter bonking. They've got no way of knowing what it sounds like in here. They're only plasterboard walls."

"Give me another kiss to get me back to sleep, Marcus."

"You're not ready to go again, Peewee, are you?"

"No, but I might be after a kiss."

When the boys went into the kitchen just after nine that morning, they found James and Peter sitting round the table, sweating and dressed in their light blue, knee length lycra one piece running suits. On the hem of the right leg their names were embroidered in white which immediately drew the eye to their packages. Marcus was used to it, but Nigel couldn't help staring when suddenly the words 'Wotch you looking at, Foureyes?' 'You, McLellan,' reverberated through his head. He grinned without the others knowing why. He thought how from the neck downwards James was a larger reproduction of Marcus. 'If Marcus turns out like that he'll break a few hearts. I hope it won't be mine.' Nigel's eyes were drawn to Peter. 'That's not a handkerchief he's got stuffed down there, that's a tea towel.' Peter seemed pleased that he'd attracted Nigel's attention.

"Morning, boys," said James McLellan. "Did you sleep well?"

"Yes," said Marcus until some strange noise woke us at about midnight."

"Nothing strange about that noise," said Peter. "We heard it too," and he looked rather pleased with himself when he got a look from James. "You know, James, that gives me some ideas about redecorating our bedroom. We might have to buy the waterbed after all."

"I'm going to get showered and dressed. Then I'll cook the breakfast while lazybones here is getting dressed. Are you boys going swimming this morning?"

"That's right," said Marcus.

"Do you want a lift?"

"It's okay, Dad. We'll walk, thanks."

When James had left the room, Peter opened up, definitely in mischievous mood. "Ooh, Marcus, that father of yours is extremely demanding. I don't know when I'm going to get my beauty sleep. I'm getting crows feet already. Look. You can see them. I tell you, Nigel, if Marcus here grows up like his father you'll never have a minute's peace. Take it from someone who knows." Both boys giggled at his camp behaviour. Nigel had the distinct impression that Marcus liked Peter, and a lot more that he liked his father.

Peter leaned in towards the boys and became more confidential. In a half whisper he said "And apart from that how did you sleep? Hush my tongue. I shouldn't be asking young innocents like you a question like that. Did you kiss each good night nicely?" The boys blushed. "Oops, there I go again. You don't have to answer. It's none of my business." He leant in even farther in and spoke more quietly. "Of course, there's a way of kissing for real boyfriends."

"We've done that," interjected Marcus and immediately wished he hadn't. Nigel dug him in the ribs.

"I'm not talking tongues." The boys squirmed, but they were caught in Peter's ban and wanted to hear what he had to say. "This is very special, comes after tongues and shows you're very special to one another. When you're ready, what you have to do is lick your boyfriend's neck at the side, then you form an O with your lips and then suck as hard as you can for half a minute, finish with a kiss on the lips and let him do that to you." Naïve as the boys were, they listened avidly and in complete awe of Peter they decided to try it later.

Marcus's father came back into the kitchen. "Okay, Peter, it's all yours," and he gave him a playful smack on the bottom as he passed. "Right, boys, place your orders for a cooked breakfast."

James and Peter picked the boys up outside the leisure centre and took them out for lunch. When they came out, it had come on to rain. "So what do you want to do now?" James asked the boys.

"Listen to music," answered Marcus. 'Listen to music' was code for go home, slob around and do absolutely nothing.

Arriving back at the flat, Nigel and Marcus went straight to Marcus's room and locked the door. Marcus went through the list he had on iTunes and picked out the latest album by Gorilla Snot, his favourite group for the time being. He played it loud enough to convince his father and Peter that the boys were listening to 'their' music, soft enough not to distract them from the two new toys they wanted to play with, French kissing which they had discovered the previous night and the little titillation Peter had with malice aforethought described to them.

Nigel kicked off his trainers and got onto the bed. Marcus took advantage of the small window he had when his dick had actually gone limp to go and take a piss. He carefully dried the tip with toilet paper and washed it before tucking it away. When he got back into the bedroom he found Nigel looking through the drawer of the bedside table on his side. "Marcus, there's K-Y and jonnies in here."

"What did you expect? A Gideon's Bible? Dad says it's always better to be safe than sorry. Once your brain takes up residence in your scrotum there is no knowing what might happen and he's not ready for grandchildren yet. I've got some at home too. Mum knows. We don't talk about it."

Marcus took his shoes and socks off and joined Nigel on the bed, put his arm round his shoulders and kissed him on the lips. "Take your glasses off. That's better." Their lips met, then their tongues. They were still not comfortable. Marcus helped Nigel by pulling his polo shirt over his head and Nigel helped Marcus to take his tee shirt off. "Look at your nipples, Peewee. They've grown really large and stiff." They French kissed again.

"Let's try what Peter said at breakfast," said Nigel.

"Okay. You go first." Faithfully following the instructions, Nigel leaned over and licked the right hand side of his boyfriend's neck, placed his lips over the wet part in the form of an O and sucked as if his life depended on it, counting in his head the seconds up to thirty. He let go. "That didn't do much for me," remarked Marcus, as yet unaware of the irony of what he had said.

"It did for me. Tasting your skin has made me go hard again and I think you'll have to start shaving soon. I definitely detected some stubble with my tongue."

"Okay, my go." Marcus performed the same procedure on the left side of Nigel's neck. "How was it for you?"

"Great, but then your lips on any part of my body will do it for me," said Nigel. "How about you?"

"Better than the other way round. It made me bone up."

"Yeah, okay, but then I only have to take my tie off for you to get a boner."

"If we've both got boners," said Marcus "we'd better do something about them. Come and lie on top of me, Peewee." Nigel rolled on top of him. Their bare chests met, their faces were inches apart and their packages were grinding together. Nigel pulled Marcus's head closer to himself. The smell of each other's breath excited and stimulated them to more intense contact. The battle of the tongues was full on. Marcus rolled Nigel off him and side by side, while the French kissing was continuing, Marcus's left hand was exploring Nigel's body, nipples, flat abdomen, innie, belt buckle, fly buttons. Marcus pulled back. "I wish when we're snogging, Peewee, you wouldn't wear 501s."

"I'll take them off for you."

"Oh no you won't. Wrestling with the buttons is part of the challenge, though I must admit a zip would make it easier." Finally with all the buttons undone Marcus pulled Nigel's jeans over his butt and along his legs until they were off. He removed the socks, which left Nigel in the CKs which Marcus had given him. Marcus then stripped down to his CKs and continued to allow his left hand to roam and explore his boy's body. It slipped under the elastic waistband and stroked the smooth groin. Finally, having no option left, he slipped with some resistance the briefs over Nigel's tackle, over his butt and Nigel did the rest to get rid of them. Marcus licked his smooth groin, his balls, his shaft and as if on autopilot he licked his glans and took it into his mouth. Quite unprepared for this advance in their sex life Nigel was unrestrained and quickly, and without warning, came in Marcus's mouth. Marcus, equally unprepared, coughed as Nigel's spunk went down the wrong way. Finally he swallowed some, not without the opportunity of savouring the flavour, and dribbling the rest down his chin.

Marcus took some tissues to clean himself and his boyfriend up, noticing that Nigel had already fallen asleep. He wrapped the duvet over him the best he could and left him while he showered and got dressed again.

Marcus went into the living room to see what was happening. His father and Peter were watching a rugby match on the TV. They said hi as he came in. Peter suppressed a giggle. Marcus's father glared at him, then at Peter. "Wot?" asked Marcus in a defiant tone.

"Nothing," answered Peter before James could say anything. At that moment a try was scored which took the attention off Marcus.

"Would anyone like a cup of tea?" asked Marcus. After a positive answer James said

"Where's Nigel?'

"Asleep on the bed."

Marcus made the tea and settled down with his father and stepfather to watch the match. While he was making it, James and Peter had obviously had words, since no words were spoken, nor hint given, about Marcus's appearance when he returned.

"We've got four tickets to see Skyfall tonight, Marcus," announced James. "Is that okay with you boys? No other plans?"

"No, that's cool, Dad. Me and Nigel were only saying we wanted to see it over half term sometime."

The rugby match was over when Nigel resurfaced and came to join the others in the living room.

"OMG," shouted Marcus. "What's that on your neck, Peewee?" Nigel rubbed it, but on the wrong side.

"What's that on yours?" asked Nigel, spotting something on Marcus's.

"Vampires on the loose, obviously," said Peter, but that remark didn't go down well with anyone.

"You'd better go and have a look in the mirror, boys, and try fielding that one with your mother on Monday, Marcus." There was hint of Schadenfreude in James's voice. The boys went into the bedroom and saw a dark purple patch precisely where they had administered Peter's instructions on one another.

"They're called love bites or hickeys," said Peter when they returned "and they are a sign of how much you love each other."

"Then why haven't you and James got any?" demanded Nigel.

"They're bruises essentially," said James in an attempt to lower the temperature, "and they will go through all the colours of the rainbow before disappearing in a few days, but it might make the process work faster if we put some witch hazel on them."

"That's only lent, Peter," said Marcus. "Expect some dire revenge."

"I rather like mine," said Nigel as they were changing to go out to the cinema.

"It's a good job we're not at school next week. We'd get the piss taken out of us unmercifully, especially with both of us sporting them," said Marcus.

The four had tickets for the front row of the circle and so enjoyed a superb view. It was worthy of note that Marcus sat at the opposite end of their group from his father, leaving Peter and Nigel in the middle. Once the film got underway the boys noticed that James and Peter were holding hands and so they considered it was in order for them to do so as well, but it went no further. Still, it was enough to keep Marcus hard for most of the film. Leaving the cinemas Marcus remarked "I'm afraid Daniel Craig doesn't do much for me."

"Don't you think so?" said Peter. "If I weren't spoken for…" He smiled at James. "…I wouldn't mind a sniff round there." James disapproved of his choice of words while approving of the sentiment.

When they arrived back at the flat, Peter made some cocoa and the four of them chatted for a while. In the morning the boys wanted to go swimming again and they would walk to the leisure centre. Meanwhile Peter would produce a Sunday lunch and fingers crossed this would not spoil. In the afternoon James and Peter would have to do the supermarket run. If Marcus and Nigel wanted to do anything special, they could, or they could join in with the fun of the supermarket or stay at home. This was not the time of year to go outside and do anything special. They could stay at home by themselves and they knew what that would lead to and they had plenty of time for that anyway, and so they went for the Sainsbury's run. "Waitrose," corrected Peter, giving them such a disapproving look that you would have thought they had said Tesco or Asda.

The boys made their excuses, saying they were tired, and wished James and Peter good night. Nigel thanked them for taking them to the cinema. Miraculously, as soon as the bedroom door was closed behind them, they felt wide awake. "Thank you for being here this weekend, Peewee," said Marcus. "Otherwise I'd have been in here by myself watching porn on the net and wanking myself silly. By the way, I've got a very good film of a boy doing a strip tease. He makes it last twenty minutes. They looked at their love bites in the mirror. They were still dark purple. Nigel walked up behind Marcus and put his hands in his pockets. "Mmm, that's nice," said Marcus, which was just as well because there was no escape. Nigel nibbled his neck, barely able to resist the temptation to give him another love bite. They were just about to get onto the bed when the sounds of bedsprings and low grunts emanated from the adjacent room. Marcus rolled his eyes.

"We'll be like that one day," said Nigel.

"I do hope so," replied Marcus, "only not so noisy," and adding enigmatically "We don't want to wake our children." Nigel did not know how serious that remark was, not that it concerned him then. He had other matters on his mind, but it would exercise him later in the week.

The boys were up early the following morning. Well, eight o'clock was early under the circumstances. James and Peter were not. Considering the cause of the boys' early awaking was the concerto for bed springs and grunt coming through the wall, that was not surprising.

"Let's go for a run," said Marcus. "You know how easy it is to lose fitness with a week doing no games or PE. It'll give us the edge when we get back 'cos I bet no one else in the squad will do anything."

"I didn't bring any kit."

"No worries. Marcus will provide," and he did.

Marcus led the way on a route he used when he had to spend weekends with his father. Then the motivation was less fitness than getting out of his way for thirty minutes or an hour.

As soon as he had donned Marcus's spare kit, Nigel felt different. He looked at himself in the mirror before leaving. He didn't know what it was, whether it was the cut, the colour of the design, the giving tightness of the lycra, but it felt that it enhanced his appearance. He became aware that whatever he was wearing, Marcus could not look scruffy, could not look ugly in it. He realised he had the best quality money could buy and that it was his father's money that was buying it. These thoughts continued to occupy Nigel as they pursued the route usually taken by Marcus. "You're quiet, Peewee."

"Just not woken up properly yet. I like this kit of yours."

"It certainly shows your package off nicely. It does mine too."

"The best thing for that are the unitards that Dad and Peter wear."

"Yeah, I would mind one of those," laughed Nigel.

"You liked them?"

"Sure. I've never even seen them on sale."

"You'd like one for yourself?"

"Course, but it ain't going to happen." They had reached the local park.

"Leave it to Marcus. One good turn deserves another. I guarantee that by the end of the week you will the proud owner of a runner's unitard."

"I haven't got that sort of pocket money."

"Fear not. It will not cost you a penny. Now we're the same size, aren't we? So that's no problem. Colour?"

"Anything but black."

"Didn't Henry Ford have something to say about that?" said Marcus.

"That was any colour as long as it was black."

"Oh, yeah."

"But I did like the blue that your dad and Peter were wearing."

They stopped talking as they found it was slowing them down. They sped up in silence. Nigel's thoughts roamed back to how great he felt wearing Marcus's kit. Hadn't they been taught somewhere… now was it geography or was it RE? …that cannibals ate their fellow human beings because they believed they absorbed their powers by doing so? By wearing Marcus's sportsgear he felt that he was absorbing something of Marcus, but he didn't know what. His confidence perhaps… his erections, he laughed to himself, as his loins did battle with the inner lining of his shorts despite the fact that the blood should be elsewhere servicing his muscles. Nigel let Marcus get a couple of yards ahead, not that he couldn't keep up. It was just that he could admire Marcus's body from behind, his straight and vertical back, the way his shorts flared away from his waist, his bottom, the musculature of his legs, the way his hair flowed in the slipstream and bounced every time he took a pace. Nigel considered he was the luckiest person in the world to have Marcus as a boyfriend and eventually he would deprive his mother and his father of a son as he took him from them to continue their life together as James and Peter did.

"Keep up, Peewee," Marcus called out.

"It's okay. I'm just lusting over your butt."

"You can do that in bed tonight."

"Lusting is a mental activity. Whatever happens to your arse in bed, it won't be a mental activity."

Nigel caught up and they ran side by side without talking. Nigel still had this vision of beauty in his mind's eye. He suddenly realised what the phrase 'poetry in motion' meant. Then much baser thoughts entered his head. 'One of these days I'm going to split those butt cheeks with my dick.' Another thought came along, one which appalled him because he could not answer the question. 'What does Marcus see in me? I've got none of the things he's got. I'm quite ordinary really.' He was afraid of putting the question to Marcus lest it destroyed the magic. Suddenly the sun came out from behind a cloud.

After about an hour they arrived outside the block of luxury flats. Marcus pressed the number for his father's flat, there was a buzz and he pushed the door open. The two boys appeared in the flat, the sweat on their faces and arms sure proof of their effort. They said good morning and were told that breakfast would be ready as soon as they had got showered and dressed. In the privacy of Marcus's room they showered together. The physical effort had strengthened their libido and that had to be sorted before they were fit for polite society. Marcus got dressed before Nigel and went off into the kitchen. When Nigel arrived, Marcus said the single word "Sorted." Nigel thought he was referring to something to do with breakfast.

After breakfast they grabbed their towels and speedos from the airing cupboard and left for the leisure centre.

Once in the water Marcus and Nigel did lengths, but Nigel peeled off and sat on the side, his legs dangling in the water. Again he sat there, just admiring Marcus, who from an earlier conversation realised what was going on, realised that he was the centre of his boyfriend's attention and wanted to please him. Nigel watched as he snaked through the water; he watched as Marcus posed on the diving board and time after time elegantly slipped into the water. Eat your heart out, Tom Daley. Faultless as you are, my Marcus pips you to the post every time. Nigel needed his spectacles in order to satisfy his lust when he just looked at Marcus in his speedo. He would stand there whether with his dick tucked down with a large bulge enhanced by the contrast against his thin lower abdomen or with it facing north giving a perfect outline of his dick and balls. Nigel found him a greater turn on when he could look at his tackle inside a speedo or a pair of shorts than he did when it was bare and on view to everybody.

Finished with his posing Marcus swam across and sat on the side with his boyfriend. "Peewee, if you want to lust, I'll give you something to lust about," and he giggled.

"Once upon a time you would have called that 'perving'."

"Those days are over. We learn from our mistakes and you've brought me so much happiness." Nigel suppressed the question 'how?'. Suddenly they were shaken from their conversation by a huge shower of water. Someone had divebombed them and when the elephantine culprit surfaced, it proved to be none other than Darren Logge.

"Just what we needed," groaned Nigel. Grinning all over his simian face, Darren shouted

"I see the vampires have been on the attack." Our boys had completely forgotten about their love bites. "Wait till I tell 'em at school about you queers," and he guffawed. "See ya, ladies." Marcus flipped him the finger. Nigel gave him two fingers.

After being on such a high all morning, their spirits plunged until a minute later they saw that the lifeguard had caught up with Logge and was pointing towards a large notice saying 'No Divebombing' and then towards the changing room.

Morale restored, our boys made their way back to the flat and Peter's Sunday lunch.

Whatever may have been said before about the cuisine chez Jacques et Pierre Peter produced a fine meal of roast lamb. He had produced roast potatoes and roast parsnip and fresh vegetables with thick tasty gravy. The boys congratulated Peter and Marcus asked why Sunday lunch couldn't be like that when it was just him there, but that was a rhetorical question posed only to Nigel.

The boys had hoped to relax after lunch and have a little fun, but as James pointed out, the supermarket closed at four and if they fell asleep that would be cutting shopping time a bit fine. When they arrived at the supermarket Peter said he had some other shopping to do and needed to take the car. He would look for the other three when he got back, starting in the café. Marcus and Nigel took turns pushing the trolley while James navigated for them. It was soon filled and while James and Nigel were taking it through the check out, Marcus was sent to look for Peter. He spotted him just pulling into the car park, waved and ran over to where he parked. He walked with Peter to where the other two were going through the check out and re-united they decided to miss the café and go straight home. Finally Nigel and Marcus could escape to Marcus's room for fun time.

Because of their large lunch out that afternoon James and Peter, Marcus and Nigel ate a late tea, then sat in the living room watching television. "I shall have to say goodbye as well as good night because I have early start at the hospital tomorrow and I don't think you two will appreciate being disturbed, especially during the school holidays," said James. Nigel said that he had an enjoyable weekend and thanked James and Peter for inviting him. Marcus graciously said that it was much better having Nigel staying with him, which was a great step forward considering how sulky or offhand he could be when dealing with his father.

The boys said good night, knowing that this might be their last opportunity of spending the night together for a little while, particularly as Nigel was getting nagging remarks from his mother that the Fourboises would like to see their only son occasionally. He'd only got away with it that weekend because Annabelle was at home and took the limelight off him. He and Annabelle had never been particularly close as siblings, not because of any antipathy, but simply because of the age gap. They had not really done much together since they were interested in different things and had different friends.

Locked in Marcus's room, he and Nigel took their time undressing each other. This was a little pleasure they had come to appreciate over the weekend and they thought it added to their love life. They had just got all their clothes off when the familiar sounds of bedsprings and passion emanated from the bedroom the other side of the wall. They grinned at each other and Marcus said "Do you think we'll ever get to that stage?"

Nigel answered "I do hope so."

Resting between bouts of adolescent male passion, they lay entwined talking. With his free arm Nigel pulled open the drawer on his bedside table and started fiddling around with the contents. Whether he was giving a hint to Marcus that he might be ready to do something different in their relationship, that was not mentioned. Then he fished out something else. "What are these?" he asked as took out two black strips of leather with velcro on them.

"I don't know," replied Marcus. "I've never noticed them before. Give's one here." He took it and said "I know. They're bracelets," and he fitted it round his wrist. Nigel did the same with the other one. Marcus then rolled over on top of his friend and they commenced a game of tonsil tennis.

The next thing they knew it was light. The customary alarm call of bedsprings and grunts from next door hadn't happened. They got out of bed and showered together. Marcus practised his party piece successfully and encouraged Nigel to try, but his glans was so sensitive that he couldn't tolerate the water playing on it for more than a few seconds and in the end Marcus had to use a more traditional method of finishing him off.

The boys dressed and while Marcus was putting the bed linen into the laundry basket, Nigel decided to repack his suitcase. As he completely emptied it, he said "Oh my goodness, look what I've just found," and he held up his neatly ironed pyjamas. Marcus giggled.

"I think we'll get this sheet and duvet cover into the washing machine straight after breakfast. There's rather a lot of evidence of a misspent weekend here." It was Nigel's turn to giggle.

The boys went into the kitchen to find Peter up and dressed in his Laurence Llewelyn-Bowen uniform. "Morning, boys. I trust you slept well."

"Too well," said Marcus. "Usually your humping wakes us up."

"Language, Marcus. Have no fears. That is a thing of the past. You will hear it no more." The boys looked puzzled. "James and I just thought it was Marcus making a big fuss about nothing, we have to admit, but this weekend for the first time we heard the noise coming the other way…" Nigel and Marcus blushed deeply. "So James and I have decided on a little bit of refurbishment which will include a solid wall and softer furnishings to absorb the sound. Now what would you like on your newly decorated walls, Marcus? Racing cars or Thomas the Tank Engine?"

"Nigel the Wank Engine would be better."

"My, who's the sharpest knife in the drawer this morning?" Peter camped it up. Marcus loved it when he did that. He had really grown fond of Peter. It was his father that he was having difficulty with. "Now, heartfaces, what can I cook you for breakfast?"

While Peter was cooking, he asked what the arrangements for the day were. "I have a client to meet at eleven and so we need to leave here by ten. And where are we going?"

"Nigel's parents are working and so we're both going to my place. When Mum works on Sunday, she always has Monday off. So she'll be there and she'll take Nigel home whenever." While Peter was cooking, Marcus laid the table and the boys got on with their cereals. After that all three of them sat down for the cooked part.

"I like your bracelets," said Peter.

"Yes, we found them in the drawers by our bed," said Nigel.

"May we keep them?" asked Marcus.

"As a souvenir of a really great weekend?" said Nigel.

"You may keep them with pleasure," replied Peter. "We put them there for our guests." He got on with eating his breakfast, then looked up. "But they're not actually bracelets." He continued eating in silence, knowing that from the tone of his voice the boys would become frustrated waiting for an answer. Finally Marcus broke the silence.

"So what are they then?" Another pause.

"Cock rings."

"Wot?" said Marcus.

"Cock rings," repeated Peter.

"What are they?"

After another pause "You won't need them at your age."

"Why?" Peter was purposely dragging out the explanation. He took a sip of coffee.

"When you get to middle age, it is not always so easy to maintain an erection – I expect you boys call it something else."

"Stiffie," said Nigel.

"Boner," said Marcus. Peter knew that. He was just stringing the boys along a bit and getting them involved.

"And so you wrap it round tight between your body and your tackle and it restricts the blood returning to your body and keeps you ready to go."

"Oh, come on, Peter," said Marcus. "You caught us on the love bites. You're not going to get away with it twice." Peter shrugged his shoulders.

"Okay, I'm sorry about the love bites. I apologise, but I'm not having you on about cock rings. You can google them when you get home and I shall be standing by the telephone avidly awaiting your apology.

"Talking of love bites, how are yours?" Peter inspected their necks. "Nearly all gone. Just a trace of yellow if you know where to look. You'll get away with that."

"We're thinking of doing them again," said Marcus.

"Well, do them when you get home," said Peter. "We don't want to get the blame for encouraging you and what about parental reaction?"

"We'll worry about that when it happens," said Nigel.

"Not particularly worried," said Marcus. "It shows other people that we're together. That's far more important."

"So that means," said Peter "that you're officially an item, and that you, Marcus, have finally and officially come out."

"Oh, no, I haven't!" was Marcus's Pavlovian reply. Peter gave him a look whereby he bent his head forward and looked out of the top of his eyes as if he were peering over a pair of reading glasses. Marcus thought for a moment. It was time that he stopped digging that metaphorical hole. He stood up and with a dramatic gesture declaimed "Okay, I'm gay. I've always been gay. I enjoy being gay and I have a boyfriend and we enjoy doing gay things together." Nigel stood up and took him into a hug.

"So does that mean that I am officially your boyfriend?"

"Of course it does, Peewee, silly," and then there appeared tears in the eyes of both of them.

Peter was caught up in the emotion of the moment. He wanted to get up and hug the two boys, but he was rooted to his seat, tears pouring down his cheeks. Finally he sobbed "How, lovely, boys. I'll go and make some toast."

This gave everyone a chance to pull themselves together. "This news will really please your father, Marcus," said Peter. Marcus shrugged his shoulders.


"You know you do give him a hard time? He does love you and he's really proud of you, too. You ought to give him a chance."

"He has a funny way of showing it. He wants to impress me all the time and it has the opposite effect. He keeps on buying me things, not because I need them or even want them, but because he is trying to buy my love, almost as if he's in competition with Mum, and again it has the opposite effect. He is so inflexible with these weekends. What I need at the end of a week of school is just to chill out. The last thing I want to do is go dashing around the countryside doing some activity or the other. That's what's been so great this weekend with Peewee here. Apart from going to the pictures we've led a normal life and that's been great."

"And what you are really trying to tell me, Marcus, is that you want me to get this across to your father in a nice way?"

"That would be good. He doesn't believe me. The noise coming from your bedroom is a good instance of that. Once you heard the noise coming the other way, you believed it."

"We're hoping by your next visit it will all be done," said Peter.

"And when I come… no, whenever I come, can I bring Peewee with me?"

"As far as we are concerned James's son's boyfriend and my stepson's boyfriend is always welcome to come and stay. We'd love to see you, Peewee. Oops! Hush my mouth. Nigel. Forgive me."

"That's all right," replied Nigel. "I don't mind it from you, Peter, or James even. I'm not ready for it at school yet."

Peter went off to make some more toast. The boys stood up, faced each other, put their arms over the other's shoulders and looked deeply into their partner's eyes. "Well done, Marcus. I'm really proud of you and love you to bits. Do you know what I really want to do?" Marcus shook his head. "I want to get my tongue so far inside your mouth that it touches that funny thing that hangs down at the back."

"Do you know what I want to do?" said Marcus, his mouth hoarse from emotion. Nigel shook his head. "I want to suck your peewee so deep that it touches the back of my throat."

"And do you know what I want to do next? I want to push my peewee so far up your butt until my balls bang against your arse."

"And then I want to do exactly the same to you, Peewee, and squirt my juice deep inside you."

Till then they hadn't noticed Peter come back in with the toast. "If you're going to be into that, boys, don't do anything until you've had another Uncle Peter chat. It needs technique and get it wrong, it will be very painful and might even cause some damage. Imagine ending up in A & E and your mother or father being called in."

"OMG, no," said Marcus.

"If it's that urgent," Peter went on, "I'm working from home for most of this week. I have to be here for when the builders and decorators are working."

They were so busy talking that they hadn't noticed how the time had gone on. "Boys, I think it's time to go home. Collect your things together." Nigel fetched his case and Marcus his small holdall. "Before we go," said Peter "here's a little souvenir from James and me." He had two small packages in his hand. "Let me get this the right way round and don't open them until you get home. We want them to be a surprise. Now the pink one's for you, Marcus, and the lavender one's for you, Peewee." The boys shook the packets to try and guess what was in them, without success, and thanked Peter. "Don't I even get a hug?" Both boys dutifully hugged him. Marcus hugged Peter more willingly than he did his father.

They moved out of the flat into the corridor and took the lift to the underground garage. Peter drove the boys to Marcus's house and safely delivered them into Mrs McLellan's hands. She and Peter said a quick hello. Christine was slowly beginning to thaw out in her attitude towards the man who had stolen her husband.

"So did you have a good weekend, boys?"

"Great," said Nigel.

"Much better with Peewee there," said Marcus. "We were allowed to relax more. We only went out once, to see Skyfall , and we only had one meal out this time."

"And did your father buy you all sorts of things?"

"No. He and Peter gave us both a souvenir of the visit. Don't know what it is. We weren't allowed to open it until we got home."

"Unpack your stuff so that I can put the dirty clothes into the washing machine, Marcus. Would you two like a drink?"

"No, thanks. Can I take Peewee upstairs?

"I wish you wouldn't call him that. He's got a proper name."

"I don't mind, Mrs McLellan," said Nigel. "Really… well not from Marcus." He was beginning to feel they had forgotten he was there.

"What are your plans?"

"We're going swimming this afternoon," said Marcus.

"Part of our keep fit drive over half term for rugby," added Nigel.

"Then Peewee's going to walk home from the leisure centre."

"So are sandwiches okay for lunch? You won't want to eat much if you're swimming."

"Fine, thanks, Mum."

The boys disappeared upstairs to Marcus's room.

"Phew," he said as he plonked himself down on the bed.

"That was a bit of a grilling," said Nigel.

"That was nothing. I've got used to it when I come home from Dad's. I get into the car if Mum's picking me up and they're usually far worse than that. I got the quick version today because you're here. Let's see what's in these mystery packets."

They undid the packages, Marcus tearing at the pink wrapping paper, Nigel teasing the sellotape open and carefully opening the lavender wrapping. "I wonder why they're colour coded," he said.

"Ta-da," shouted Marcus, as a blue garment fell onto the duvet. "Identical blue lycra running suits, just like theirs. What did I tell you?"

"They're not identical. Look, stitched on the right leg just above the hem. 'Nigel'." Marcus looked at his.

"Oh, yeah, just above the left knee. 'Marcus'." Then they noticed. There had fallen out of each package a CK thong.

"That's thoughtful," said Nigel. "So that the straps from your jock don't show through."

"Of course, you don't have to wear anything if you want to show off your junk. The lycra'll be tight enough to stop it all jiggling around. Dad and Peter weren't yesterday."

"Weren't what?"

"Wearing anything underneath."

"Well, that's decided what we're doing tomorrow, then," said Nigel. "We're going for a run."

"And Mum will be at work. So she won't be able to make comments."

"How about swapping love bites?"

"Wait till tomorrow so that Mum won't think we got them at Dad's place."

When Mr and Mrs Fourbois arrived home from work, Nigel was already there. "Hallo, dear," said Mrs Fourbois. "Did you have a nice time?"

"Yeah, great, and I think Marcus enjoyed himself too, which he normally doesn't when he's with his dad."

"Did you go out anywhere?"

"Not very much. We went and saw Skyfall …"

" Skyfall ?"

"You know, Mum. The latest James Bond film."

"Oh. I remember them with Sean Connery and Roger Moore. Roger Moore used to model for knitting patterns. I think I've got one somewhere with him in a yellow waistcoat."

"… and look what Marcus's dad and his partner gave us." He held up his new running suit. "These are the DBs."

"Nigel! Do I approve of that expression?"

"Sorry, Mum. Marcus said he wanted one and so they got us one each. We're going running together tomorrow. Ooh, and I need a new swimming costume. I'm growing out of this one and it's beginning to look a bit indecent."

"Okay," said his mother. "I'll give you £10 and if you want anything more fashionable and expensive, you can add to it out of your birthday money. I hope you stop growing soon. You're costing a fortune." Nigel knew that ten pounds would only buy Primark's best swimming shorts, but as he wanted a speedo and realised that this was the best offer he was going to get, he accepted gratefully. At least he could then look sexily indecent.

At six o'clock Nigel was called down to supper. His father asked him whether he had had a nice time at Dr McLellan's. He told him what he had already told his mother. "James and Peter… or rather Peter said that I'd be welcome to go there whenever Marcus stays there and they're having some refurbishment done that'll be finished by the next time Marcus goes." Nigel tactfully did not go into detail.

"That's nice," said his mother. "When are you going to bring Marcus home here?"

"Can I?"

"You know you can bring your friends home and we've only ever seen him briefly at rugby matches. We'd like to get to know him. Also we don't see much of you these days."

"That's what Marcus's mum says about him. Can he come on Saturday and sleep over?"

"Yes, as far as we're concerned, but you'd better see what Mrs McLellan has to say about it first. We can put him up in Annabelle's room." Nigel's face must have dropped a mile.

"No, it's okay, Mum." There was almost a note of desperation in his voice. "He'll bring his sleeping bag and sleep on the floor in mine. That's what sleep overs are about and we talk about all our teenage problems into the small hours of the morning until we fall asleep. Then we can't get up in the morning, but it doesn't matter because it's Sunday."

"Okay, Nigel," said his father. "We get the point."

"Ohh, I nearly forgot the most important thing of all. This morning over breakfast Marcus officially came out. It was only to me and Peter. His father had gone to work, but Peter will tell James tonight, and Marcus doesn't want to come out at school yet. He's not ready for that."

"Oh, that's nice, dear," said his mother. His father said nothing.

"You know you said I could have a boyfriend now that I'm fourteen?"

"I know you asked if you could," answered his mother, "but I don't think we said yes."

"But you didn't say no, either. You said 'one step at a time'. We're two steps on now and Marcus has gone beyond the 'best mate' stage and I wondered…"

His father stepped in here. "Nigel, at your age it's natural that you want to overstep the boundaries, extend them, perhaps I should say. There are certain things we can stop by grounding you, say, or stopping your pocket money or because it is against the law. It's important to use these sanctions to protect you until you're sixteen, or eighteen in some cases." Nigel was wriggling in his seat. "Of course some of the things, if we banned you, you might still do behind our backs. We have accepted that you are gay and all that means. It was not easy, but I think your mother will agree with me that this is one of the things we should not oppose." Nigel breathed a sigh of relief. "If you have decided that Marcus is the special person in your life, whether permanently or just for the time being, he is welcome in our home, as I hope you are in his. If you are intimate, we don't want to know about it. If he is special to you and you are special to him, you treasure and look after each other. If you decide you are not after all the right people for one another, you shake hands and go your separate ways in a civilised manner so that we can still welcome the young man into our house."

Nigel was gobsmacked. During his father's oration he had been preparing himself for the worst. He knew that what his father was saying was important, for his mother made all the day to day decisions in the household which her husband abided by, but when his father spoke it would be about a serious matter and final. He got up, ran around the table, hugged his father and kissed him on the cheek, then kissed his mother.

"Can I phone him now?"

"You can phone him when we've cleared away and done the washing up," said his mother. Reality had returned.

When Nigel got up on Tuesday morning, he got dressed in his new running suit. He decided to wear the thong underneath and he stood in front of the mirror admiring himself, especially the way it formed a nice round package in his skin tight one-piece. It had never looked so big before and he wondered whether he was still growing down there. He slipped some sweats and sports sweater over it, put on his socks and trainers and went down to make himself some breakfast. When he was ready, he texted Marcus, got out his bike and cycled to his house.

After locking it up, Nigel rang the doorbell and was soon greeted by Marcus who took him into a tight, crotch-grinding hug.

"So did your father ring last night, Marcus?"

"Sure did."


"He congratulated me, said it was the right thing to do and that I would feel much more comfortable with myself. And the most amazing thing was that he did not try to give me a 'coming-out' gift. So he might have been listening to Peter. He also confirmed what Peter said about you being welcome to come and stay over with me, providing they know in advance so that they can get food in and that."

"So what did your mother say about it all?"

"Well, it wasn't news to her and she was glad it was all out in the open now."

"And what did she say about sleeping over on Saturday?"

"She said that as she was working all day Saturday that was fine, but she wanted me home by ten Sunday morning. She would like to spend some time with her son and also make sure that I was in a fit state to go back to school on Monday."

"What can she mean by that?" Marcus giggled.

"You know very well, Peewee. It's because you are such a demanding sex predator who won't stop molesting me."

"Is that what she said?"

"No, you numpty. I'm just winding you up. Do you think she'd ever let me go on a sleep over with you if she thought that."

"S'pose not. Oh, and while I remember, bring your sleeping bag on Saturday. You won't need it, but it will keep the 'rents happy. Do you know what? Mum was going to put you in my sister's room. I ask you. I said it wouldn't be a genuine sleep over if she did, and my dad said that should we be 'intimate', they didn't want to know anything about it."

"So you'll have to be quiet this weekend, Peewee."


"Oh, I almost forgot," said Marcus. "My dad asked if we were officially an item."

"What did you say?"

"I said that as I'd only come out that morning we hadn't had time to discuss it. He'd be the second or third person to know, if we decided."

"Do we want to be an item?" said Nigel, seeking reassurance.

"Do you want me as your boyfriend, Peewee?"

"Do you want me as yours, Marcus?" They stood facing one another with their hands on each other's shoulders, looking into each other's eyes, as was their wont, and nodded.

"We'd better get on and do what we said we were going to do," said Marcus.

"Then you'd better get me in the mood – and be careful. I don't want to come off in my brand new one-piece."

Standing the boys kissed, avoiding letting their crotches meet, and when they were ready, they committed the foul deed, one after the other. They looked in the mirror. Success.

"Now we are real boyfriends," said Nigel.

Logically this is the end of the tale of Wooing McLellan , how bitter enmity grew to become love, but there are one or two ends to tie up.

When Marcus took off his sweats and top, Nigel caught his breath. Marcus was obviously wearing nothing under his running suit. Everything could be seen in detailed outline. Marcus complimented Peewee on his neat round bulge. As they ran they could not ignore the number of people who were checking them out and blamed it on the names printed on the leg. "It's like girls who wear tee shirts with words printed on them and then they complain that men are staring at their tits," said Nigel, thinking of his sister.

"Stops them staring at our love bites," said Marcus. In fact, the boys were rather flattered and it wouldn't deter them from wearing their running suits.

They ran back to Marcus's place; he got changed. They rode their bikes to Nigel's; he got changed. They had a little bit of fun on Nigel's bed, then cycled into town. After getting a bite to eat at Burger Star, Nigel went to buy his speedo and with advice from Marcus selected one that had gold panels at the front and back and royal blue side panels. They cycled back to Nigel's because his mother wanted to meet Marcus properly. So that she could recognise him when he wasn't wearing rugby kit, or so she said. As she wasn't due home for another hour, Nigel and Marcus did what any full blooded, adolescent, outed homosexual boys in love and lust would with the availability of both privacy and a bed. When Mrs Fourbois arrived home, Marcus, after an hour of buttered crumpet, tea and small talk, passed muster and was allowed to go home, the boys agreeing to meet at the leisure centre for a swim the next day.

The sleep over was a success and Marcus became a welcome guest in the Fourbois household.

Which just leaves Darren Logge. Back at school on the Monday he was determined to rescue some capital from his less than glorious confrontation at the swimming pool.

Between lessons he stood up in front of the class and started mouthing off. "You should have seen those two great queerboys McLellan and Fourbois at the swimming pool last week. Fourbois, that's the right name for him. There they were posing with these love bites."

"We weren't the ones to be thrown out of the pool," said Marcus.

"Only because I divebombed you girlies."

"T hat's good from the kid who had one bollock hanging out of his swimshorts ," retorted Nigel, " but that's because he's only got one bollock. That's why he got thrown out. Indecent exposure." The rest of the class were howling with laughter.

"No, it wasn't."

"Two of us saw it," lied Nigel.

"I'll get you f…..g poofs at break." Unfortunately he had not seen Mr Pryce enter the room.

"You won't be getting anyone at break, Logge. "You'll be seeing me outside the Masters' Common Room. Now sit down, boy."

From that day forth he was known as Mono or Mono Logge and became the object of many a checking out in the changing rooms.


Marcus McLellan exists. At the time of writing he is fourteen and out there, although under a different name. He is the author's current obsession. Marcus, you have a ninety percent chance of being straight and if you are, I hope you never read this. You have a ten percent chance of being gay. Should you read this, on the day after your sixteenth birthday, please knock on my door on the way home from school. NF

1 I wanted to check the meaning. For me the verb 'scrog' is used of boys trying to grab each other's testicles in play or fighting. Possibly northern in origin. Also used as a malapropism for to 'scrump' (steal apples etc from the tree). I can only attest this orally, not in writing.

2 Ye have heard that it hath been said, Thou shalt love thy neighbour, and hate thine enemy. But I say unto you, Love your enemies.

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