What're You Waiting For?

by Kit

"The length of the ladder is three metres… distance is one metre…" Mr Hodges droned on.

I wondered what sane person would schedule a double-math class for the end of a Friday afternoon. I also wondered why Hodges was wasting time explaining one of the problems that he'd already handed out to us for our homework. Maybe he, like the students, was just killing time before school ended for the weekend.

"You've seen one metre, you've seen them all," Pat whispered to me, "and twenty centimetres is enough for anyone."

He'd been my best friend since we were five years old, but even I didn't always understand how his mind worked. Although we'd been close companions for ten years, his sense of humour was sometimes impossible for me to understand, and I'd learned that on those occasions it was usually better not to try.

"The man is ninety kilograms… coefficient of friction… Calculate the maximum safe distance and the angle…" Hodges continued.

"The angle of the dangle is proportional to the tilt of the kilt," Pat whispered.

"Sir! Sir!" I said, putting up my hand. "Wouldn't the safest thing be to have someone hold the bottom of the ladder or put sandbags there?"

"Probably, Jacobs, but there aren't any available," the old teacher replied and sighed with practiced patience. "However, if you know the exact weights and coefficients of friction, feel free to include your calculations with and without sandbags."

"And you don't want just anybody holding your bottom," my best friend commented quietly.

That was humour I understood, and combined with his breath tickling my ear, it made me start to laugh. However, I tried to suppress the laughter, making it turn into a strangled snort.

"Jackson! Jacobs!" Hodges called out, no longer quite so patient.

"I thought we could collaborate on these homework problems, sir," I said innocently.

"Yes, but not during class, and especially not while I'm talking. In any case, you weren't collaborating; you were giggling like silly little girls."

We certainly hadn't been giggling, but I presumed that it was the old man's attempt at humour. Of course, if there had been any girls present, they might have been offended by his comment, but this was an all-boy school. The lack of girls was something that Pat occasionally complained about, but it was fine with me, and I suspected it was fine with at least a couple of our teachers.

"If either of you interrupts me again," Hodges threatened, "I'll give you an extra ten problems for homework."

Given that it was almost time for the end of class and that he wouldn't want to mark extra homework any more than I wanted to do it, I thought the extra problems would be unlikely. However, I didn't want to take any risks and so remained silent.

"Sandbags!" Pat grumbled amicably when we left the classroom. "You almost got us extra homework."

"I was making a public service announcement about safe use of ladders. It may save someone's life someday," I pointed out archly. "Anyway, it was your jokes that Hodges complained about."

"No, it wasn't. It was your silly laugh."

"I can't help laughing, and I tried to hold it in. Anyway, most teachers like a bit of light relief as long as it's polite and respectful. I bet they sometimes get as bored as we do."

"But you shouldn't take so many risks," Pat chided. "Remember Wilson."

Of course I remembered the one and only time that I got a detention. Two years ago, in Wilson's science class, the new teacher had been telling us about poisonous and smelly sulphides. I'd respectfully asked if farts could be poisonous, and Wilson had accused me of being 'impertinent'. After that, I learned to get to know a teacher's personality before trying to amuse him.

As was our usual routine, we took the bus home together and got off at the same stop, though Pat had a longer walk from there. On the bus that afternoon, he again made fun of me for my comment about sandbags. I took it in good humour because we often teased each other and because I was happy that for some reason he appeared to be very amused by the incident. However, I was relieved when he moved on to another topic.

We never had difficulty finding something to talk about, but we were equally comfortable just being together in companionable silence. Sometimes our discussions became quite deep and ranged over a wide variety of topics. However, he always avoided talking about sex, although there were occasional references to erections or masturbation in his typical schoolboy jokes.

On one occasion, when we talked about the first time we met, Pat said that at first he'd felt that I was a bit scary because I was so unpredictable. Then, to ensure that I wasn't offended, he quickly pointed out that as he got to know me, he enjoyed being with me because it was like going on an adventure. My own earliest memory of being with him was a feeling of comfort, like putting on a favourite warm sweater on a chilly day.

Apart from religion and the fact that neither of us had siblings, we had little in common, especially in physical appearance. My pale skin, straight fair hair, and green eyes contrasted with the caramel complexion, curly black hair, and deep brown eyes that he'd inherited from his Grenadian father. While I was average height and build, he was tall and slim. In fact, in all the years we were growing up, he'd always been taller, and his growth spurts had always started before mine, even though he was three months younger.

Whatever our physical and mental differences, however, we were somehow drawn together, and by the time we left primary school, we couldn't imagine being apart. Fortunately, the similarity in our names proved to be useful when we moved to secondary school, where classes and seating in the first years were determined alphabetically. In later years, though he was more artistic and I leaned toward the sciences, we took the same classes because we both intended to pursue a career in medicine.

Whereas I actually wanted to be a physician, he would have preferred to have become a writer, but his parents wanted him to be a doctor. As if it were some consolation, they pointed out that writing could be his hobby. They offered him substantial bribes to pursue a medical career, and each time he took a step along that path, they provided him with gifts or trips to wherever he wanted to go. They also told him that as soon as he could drive, they'd buy a car for him.

Although both our families were Catholic and went to the same church, his parents were very devout, whereas for my parents, religion was more like a hobby than a sacred duty. Despite the different degrees of devotion and commitment to the church, the two sets of parents were on friendly terms and usually had a brief chat after Sunday Mass. However, apart from church-related events, their only social contact was related to the friendship between their sons.

Of course, we both had other friends, and we occasionally socialised with some of them outside of school, but none of them were ever invited to Pat's house. A few of them sometimes came to my house, but usually only for special occasions such as my birthday. Pat was my only really close friend, and the others were just part of the background of my social life.

On the evening following that double math class, I called Pat. Ostensibly it was to ask about homework, but mostly it was because I wanted to hear his voice. Ever since it had broken during puberty, the sound of his slightly husky teenage voice close to my ear had often sent delightful tingles down my spine.

"Have you looked at any of those math problems yet?" I asked.

"Yeah, I just finished the last one," he replied smugly.

"I thought we were going to do them together," I complained.

"Mum and Dad said I couldn't watch TV or go on my computer until all my homework was done. Anyway, we can go through them together tomorrow."

"Okay," I agreed. "And did you remember to ask them if you can come to tea here on Sunday?"

"Mum said I could come round after Benediction and that she hoped to see you there," he replied a little apologetically, giving me the feeling that for his mum it was a sort of quid pro quo .

My mum and dad never went to Sunday afternoon Benediction, and in the past I'd usually attended only when I was in the church choir. On this occasion, given the short duration of the service, my enjoyment of hearing the choir, and the fact I liked the smell of incense, I decided that attending was a small price to pay for spending extra time with Pat. Also, I always took any opportunity to build up good will with his parents.

"That's fine. I'll be there," I said. "Do you have any plans for tomorrow night?"

"I thought I'd work on the story. You know, the one I told you I'd try writing for that competition."

"Yes, I remember. You mentioned that there's a hundred pounds prize. As your proofreader, what's my share?"

For the previous couple of years he'd been writing articles and occasional fiction for the school magazine, as well as just for his own personal pleasure. Most of his work was never intended to be made public; he enjoyed writing, and he'd often write a story just to entertain me. As I read and enjoyed everything he wrote, I called myself his proofreader, but that was really just jesting because his written English was considerably better than mine.

"That's the first prize. But there's a second prize of fifty pounds and a third of twenty-five," he replied. Then he teased, "Maybe we can haggle about your share if I win anything, but it definitely won't be more than ten percent."

"You're sure to get first prize if the judges have half a brain and halfway decent taste," I said confidently. "And even if the judges are useless, you'll get second prize."

"You're crazy," he said and laughed. "I haven't even finished writing it yet."

At weekends, most of the time we were able to spend together was on Saturdays, and we made the most of that. If the weather was fine, we'd go hiking or cycling in the nearby countryside, and if it was too cold or wet, we'd play video games or watch TV, almost always at my home. At his house, although I was always made welcome, I often felt we were being constantly observed and judged by his parents.

When we went to the cinema, it had to be to see something they approved of, and when we watched movies on Sky or Netflix, it was at my house so that we could avoid their scrutiny. Unlike Pat's parents, who imposed strict rules on him, my parents had a more 'free range' style. Of course, there were boundaries, but they allowed me to explore and sometimes push at those boundaries.

As planned, the following morning, we went through the math problems at his house, and then I went home for lunch. In the afternoon, we went cycling, and when I returned home, my dad came to meet me as soon as I stepped through the back door.

"We need to talk," he said.

"Can't it wait until I've had a shower? I'm all sweaty and smelly," I said, wanting to give myself time to consider why he might think we needed to talk.

"I suppose so," he agreed. Then, seeing my anxious look, he added, "Don't worry, you haven't done anything wrong. Well, not much, anyway."

That didn't really make me feel better, and during my shower, I tried to think of something that I'd done that might have made Dad decide to confront me as soon as I got home. However, by the time that I'd gone downstairs and found my mum and dad in the living room, I still had no idea what the 'talk' might be about.

"First of all," Dad said, "no one was snooping or checking up on you."

"Erm, okay," I replied, wondering why he felt it was important to make that disclaimer.

"I took clean laundry up to your room when you went out on your bike," Mum said, "and I saw your laptop on the desk. You'd left it open, and the screensaver hadn't come on. So I went to close it and couldn't avoid seeing what was on the screen."

As the significance of what she'd said sank in, I decided to give her the benefit of the doubt regarding Dad's claim that no one was snooping. I'd been so eager to meet with Pat that I'd forgotten about my laptop. Fortunately, there was nothing pornographic stored on it, though there were links to sites containing gay-related information. There were also links to some of my favourite gay teen romance stories.

"There's no, you know, erm, porn on my computer," I said warily, making a mental note to check the settings for the auto sleep and screensaver.

"I'll take your word for that, and I didn't go looking beyond what was on the screen. All I saw was the browser and the titles of the tabs, and some of them were gay-related," she said. Then she added defensively, "But you have to take some responsibility for security on your computer."

"There's no point in having a login password if you don't shut down and if you don't take other security precautions," Dad chided gently. "What if the laptop hadn't been in a private place and someone besides your mum had seen it?"

"Anyway," Mum said, "what we really want to say is that it's up to you if you want to tell us about your sexuality, but whatever it is, gay, bi, or straight, we will always love you and support you."

"We did consider not mentioning this and pretending that your mum hadn't seen anything," Dad said, "but it seemed unfair to hide that from you, and we wanted to warn you about your lax security."

Knowing my parents, that was the sort of reaction I would have expected, but it was still an extremely embarrassing situation, and I was struggling to deal with it. I could simply have declined to either confirm or deny their suspicions, but then the tension and uncertainty would continue to linger in my mind. It wasn't the way I would've chosen to come out, but confirming it immediately seemed to be the least-worst option.

"Yes, I'm gay," I said eventually.

"Okay, that's everything settled, then," Mum said, sounding relieved. "I hope you know that you can talk about anything with me or your dad. But most important, this will remain just between us three unless you say otherwise."

Although I trusted my parents to keep my secret, I was still a little paranoid, wondering if anyone else might have seen clues or maybe just guessed that I was gay. My main concern was how any suspicions about my sexuality might affect my friendship with Pat. I was reasonably confident that he'd accept it, but I was pretty sure that his parents would prevent him from seeing me if they knew.

When I was about eleven, I'd started to realise that my feelings for Pat weren't just friendship. After more than a year of internal struggle, I began to accept that perhaps I was gay and that I'd been attracted to him long before I knew anything about sex. I remembered that when we were eight, I persuaded him to show me his willy in return for a piece of chocolate.

Many times over the following three years or so, I'd offered him the same bribe, and he always seemed happy to accept. However, after he started getting pubes, he refused to do it any more. He never tried to bribe me to show him my penis, although I would have happily done so without wanting any payment.

Over the next couple of weeks, with no indications that anyone outside my family knew my secret, I began to relax my paranoid vigilance. If Pat had noticed any changes in me, he never gave any indication, and our friendship continued unaltered. However, I still dreaded the possibility that his parents might find out.

For years, I'd been cultivating my 'good Catholic boy' image with his parents, and especially with his mother. From her point of view, one big consideration in my favour was that I'd been in the church choir for more than three years before my voice broke. Perhaps it would be an exaggeration to say that she approved of me, but at least she didn't disapprove of me as much as she seemed to disapprove of most other things in her son's life. After all, my chosen career path was the one she wanted for her son, and at least I wasn't a girl who might distract him away from his studies or tempt him into sin.

The Easter holidays began a few weeks after I admitted to my parents that I was gay, and life carried on as usual. Pat continued working on his new story, and when he told his parents that he was writing for a competition, they were very pleased. They believed that 'the Devil makes work for idle hands' and made sure that he was kept busy when he wasn't socialising with me.

One evening, in the middle of the first week of the holidays, Pat sent me a message saying simply, 'Please read'. Attached was a file that I assumed was his entry for the story competition, so I sat on my bed with my laptop, opened the file, and eagerly began to read. My first reaction was disappointment; the quality of writing wasn't up to his usual standards, and the plot seemed not to be very original.

Basically, it appeared to be a variation on a 'Romeo and Juliet' theme. A teen boy and teen girl fall in love, but their parents are not only of different religions but also almost fanatical in their beliefs. Both sets of parents try to keep the young couple apart, the teens run away together, the girl's family catch up with the pair, and the boy is killed. Apart from anything else, such an unhappy ending was enough to make me dislike the story.

Of course, Pat knew what sort of stories I liked or disliked, and that made me wonder why he'd sent me this below-average example of his writing. Thinking that perhaps I'd missed something, maybe an indication that it was an allegory or some sort of satire, I read it again. Then I noticed several aspects that at first had seemed superficial.

The physical description and many of the personality traits of the boy in the story were very much like Pat. The girl's appearance and character could be taken as being a female version of me. The ultra-religious parents in the story could be a slightly exaggerated version of his own parents. I considered that this might be some sort of parable about me and him, and if so, I wondered how I should feel about being portrayed as female.

That night I got very little sleep as I tried to work out what the story meant and why he'd sent it to me. Did he know or suspect I was gay? Was he implying that he'd love me if I were a girl? Was he hinting that he was gay? Did he think he'd be in danger if people thought he loved me? Was the story, possibly written specifically for me, intended as an invitation or as a warning?

The next morning, as soon as my parents had gone to work, I called Pat. When he answered, he sounded flustered, and I got the impression that he might not have been expecting my call or that perhaps he hadn't been prepared for it so soon.

"Thanks for sending the story," I said. "It's not for the competition, is it?"

"Erm, no," he replied hesitantly. "I've not finished that yet."

"Well, it's not long until the deadline, so I hope you'll be sending it to me soon."

"Yeah, I guess. If you want."

"Of course I do," I assured him. "I've been looking forward to it ever since you said you were entering the competition."

There was a lengthening silence, during which it seemed that neither of us wanted to start discussing the story he'd sent the previous evening. However, before it became too uncomfortable, I decided to move things along.

"As your regular proofreader," I said, trying to keep the mood as light as possible. "I noticed that what you sent last night isn't your usual sort of story. In fact, I got the feeling that you intended it to send a message."

"Yeah," he said slowly and tentatively.

"Well, you know I'm not the best at analysing literature, so maybe I don't understand it properly. Why don't you come over so we can chat about it?" I suggested.

"What, now?" he asked, startled.

"Well, as soon as you've finished breakfast."

"I had breakfast ages ago, before Mum and Dad went to work," he replied. Then, after a brief pause, he added, "Okay, I'll be there in about half an hour."

When I opened the door and greeted him, his expression, which was generally serious by default, was even more serious than usual, and his eyes showed a wary nervousness. However, when he saw my warm and welcoming smile, he grinned sheepishly and began to look more relaxed. As I was the only one at home, we settled down in the living room, with him on the sofa and me in Dad's armchair.

"Okay," I began, "feel free to tell me if I got this wrong, but I think the story was like a parable. You're the boy, but why did you make me into a girl?"

"Artistic license?" he suggested, hoping that I'd accept that answer. Then, when I raised a doubting eyebrow, he admitted, "Actually, writing about two boys wouldn't be a good idea. Mum and Dad don't usually read my stories, but if they ever read this, two boys would mean trouble. And I didn't want to be the girl. But I don't think you're girly or anything!"

"So does the parable mean that if two boys like us were in love, then something very bad will happen?" I asked.

He looked down at the floor and nodded his head slowly.

"But if we don't love each other, then it would be okay?" I persisted.

Again, he didn't reply in words, but he raised his head and looked directly into my eyes, and I saw a fearful sadness.

"Yeah," I said and sighed. "Well, for me, it's already too late for that, and based on the story, I guess you already suspected it."

With the same look in his eyes, he just nodded his head. Somehow I got the impression that he was looking to me for answers, and maybe that was the reason he'd written the story and sent it to me.

"And do you think I'm gay?" I asked, trying to pretend that I didn't really care.

"I've been wondering for a long time. I remembered that when we were little kids, you kept asking to see my dick. And you've never been interested in girls," he said. Then he paused before adding, "Am I wrong?"

"No. You're not wrong," I admitted with a feeling of relief that bordered on elation. "But what about you? You've complained a lot about there being no girls at school, so I always presumed you're straight."

"I don't want anyone to think that I'm not straight."

By that, I assumed that he meant he was gay or bi, but his reply was so convoluted that at first I wasn't sure that my interpretation was correct.

"Ever since we first met, I've loved you as my best friend," I said, wanting to speak plainly and leave no room for misinterpretation, "but in the past few years, I fell in love with you."

There it was; all my cards were on the table, clear for him to see, and there was no going back. However, I knew him so well that I was certain he'd not use the information to harm me.

"Yeah, me, too," he said, as if pleading guilty to a crime. "It's not too bad for us to be gay, and I think it's even okay to love each other as long as we don't do anything like sex. But Mum and Dad will kill me if they find out."

Of course, I knew the reference to them killing him was just a figure of speech, but I realised that they'd make life very bad for him if they found out about either him or me. They'd certainly never let me see him again, even if that meant moving him to a different school.

"We'll just have to make sure they don't find out, at least not until you're old enough to leave home," I said with more confidence than I felt. "After all, we've done a pretty good job of hiding it from them so far. But maybe it'll be better if we spend less time at your house and more time here."

"What if your parents find out?" he asked with a concerned frown.

"They already know that I'm gay," I said soothingly, "and I trust them to keep it secret."

"You haven't told them about me, have you?" he asked, alarmed and fearful.

"I didn't know about you until just now," I pointed out, "and of course I won't tell them about you. But even if they found out, they'd never tell anyone."

Although still anxious, he leaned back, and some of the tension began to drain out of him. It occurred to me that when he sent me the story, he hadn't really thought through the possible consequences. Bearing in mind how much time he must have spent writing it, at first it seemed odd that he'd not considered all the possible repercussions of sending it to me. Then I guessed that perhaps he'd written it some time ago and that maybe sending it to me was a spur-of-the-moment decision.

"We're still friends, then?" he asked. "Even if we love each other and can't have sex?"

"Of course we're still friends!" I said instantly. "The sex thing is separate."

"I don't want to go to Hell."

That was a topic that I didn't want to go into immediately, if at all. What I really wanted to do was sit next to him on the sofa and give him a comforting hug. However, we'd not hugged since we were little kids, and I didn't want to scare him off. He was looking at me as if he sought reassurance and wanted me to solve his problems or give him some answers. So, despite my reluctance, I felt that I should address his comment about Hell.

"The church says that God loves us so much that he allowed his son to die horribly to save us," I said. "To me, that doesn't seem like the sort of God who'd send anyone to eternal agony in Hell, especially not just because they love another person and have sex."

He frowned in thought but didn't seem convinced, so I tried another tack.

"And people can show their love in different ways without actual sex," I said, improvising and not giving much thought to what I was saying. "They can kiss, cuddle, hug, and just be physically close."

"That sounds a bit sexual," he replied doubtfully.

"When I was little, I used to cuddle with Mum and Dad a lot. I don't do it now, but I still hug them sometimes, and I don't think that's even a bit sexual."

He remained silent and frowning for several seconds before responding.

"So you want me to hug you?" he asked nervously.

"What I really want is for you to feel you can hug me whenever you like, and without going to Hell," I replied. Then I grinned and added, "But I'll always be happy for you to hug me."

For what felt like a long time but was probably less than a minute, he remained still, silently studying his hands as they rested on his knees. Then he stood up and opened his arms, which I interpreted as an invitation to share a hug. So I got up and put my arms around him, and after a brief pause, he tentatively did the same to me. At first, he was tense and awkward, but he soon relaxed.

As I rested my head on his shoulder, I heard him whisper something very quietly, probably to himself rather than to me. It sounded like 'Not sex' or maybe 'No sex'. Whatever the words were, and whatever he meant, the person I loved was in my arms, and for the moment, I was happy. He would need time to decide for himself what he wanted to do in the future, and I'd wait as patiently as I could.

Sending that parable story to me was far from the first time that Pat had taken the initiative in our relationship. Being more risk-averse just made him more subtle when he took the lead. Shortly after my tenth birthday and a few weeks before his, we watched a movie featuring some boys having a sleepover. He suggested that it would be great if we could have sleepovers, and I pointed out that his parents would probably not allow that.

The following week, when we met up to go to school one morning, he greeted me with a big grin.

"Do you want to come for a sleepover at my house sometime?" he asked. "If you do, Mum said she'd call your parents and set things up."

"Yeah, I do," I replied, astonished. "How did you manage to get your mum and dad to agree?"

"I told them that sometimes it was a bit lonely being the only kid in the house. Then I said that you're the only kid in your house, too, and you're like my brother, so it would be nice if you could stay overnight sometimes."

Even at that young age, he knew how to manipulate his usually inflexible parents, and my already huge admiration for him was further increased. As it turned out, it wasn't quite like the sleepovers we'd seen on TV because his parents made me sleep in a separate bedroom, but at least we were together right up until bedtime. A little later, I asked him if he could spend a night in my house.

"I have a plan," he assured me. "But you have to be really good when you have a sleepover with me."

Trusting Pat and his plan, I was patient and on my best behaviour for the following five weeks, which included two sleepovers. One evening, at his mum's request, I even entertained his parents by singing a couple of the hymns that I'd sung that week with the church choir. Then one Sunday after Mass, while chatting with my parents, Pat's mother asked if it would be okay if he had a sleepover at my house sometime. Pat looked at me, winked, and grinned smugly.

"So how did you do it?" I asked him as soon as we were alone together.

"I told them that it didn't seem fair that you always stayed with us and that it would be nice if I could spend the night at your house," he replied, relishing his success. "And then Mum said it should be okay because she could see that you're a good influence on me."

Whenever he stayed over at my house, he slept on a foldaway bed in my room, and it wasn't unusual for us to fall asleep in the middle of whispered conversations. The sleepovers weren't frequent, usually one or two per month, and gradually, instead of alternating equally between his home and mine, they became mostly at my house. However, once we entered our teens, sleepovers became a little less frequent.

We were still on Easter vacation for a couple of weeks after he shared the parable about us. Apart from the fact that he spent considerable time working on his story for the competition, our usual holiday routine remained unchanged. We went cycling, played video games, watched TV, listened to music, and generally enjoyed talking and joking around together. However, at least for me, the emotional situation had become more complicated.

On the one hand, the shared revelations about our sexuality and feelings helped us to be even more relaxed together because we didn't have to keep things hidden, at least not from each other. On the other hand, I felt that there was tension when we were physically close. When we were almost touching, I felt a sort of all-over tingling, but I was fearful of actually touching him.

For the first few days, I was in a dilemma. When I considered trying to hug him or even just touch him, I wondered if he'd interpret it as an attempt to be sexual and feel that I was pressuring him. However, if I waited for him to initiate physical contact and he didn't, I wouldn't know if it meant he didn't want to or if he was just too reserved to make the first move. Eventually, I couldn't bear it any longer, and one afternoon, when we were on the sofa in my house, I paused the game we were playing.

"I liked when we hugged. I liked it a lot," I said, setting aside the controller and turning to face him. "Did you?"

"Yeah, I liked it a lot, too," he admitted, looking embarrassed.

"If we both liked it, why haven't we done it again?"

"You didn't suggest it, and there hasn't been any reason to," he replied, confusing me.

"Does there need to be a special reason? And there's no need for me to suggest it. You have my permission to do it anytime."

"Okay, you have my permission, too," he said, frowning in thought. "But only in private!"

"I'd never even think about it in public," I reassured him.

He put down his game controller and gave me an uncertain look, making me suspect that he was wondering if we needed to stand up to hug properly.

"We don't have to stand up," I said gently, "we can combine a hug and a cuddle. Just sit back."

He did as I requested, and I moved over until we were sitting with our sides touching. Then I put my arm around his back and pulled him tightly against me. He immediately got the idea and put his arm over my shoulders in a sort of sideways hug, and then I rested my head on his chest. His muscles were tense and his heart was beating rapidly, but he soon relaxed and sighed deeply. I put my other arm across his abdomen.

"This is nice," I said.

"Yeah," he agreed.

We stayed like that for several minutes, until my arm, trapped between his back and the sofa, started to become numb. When I mentioned this to Pat, he leaned forward, and I wiggled my hand free. As I raised my head from his chest, I noticed that he had a hand strategically placed over his groin. I wondered if he was hiding an erection but decided not to mention it.

"That was fun. We should cuddle more often," I said brightly, massaging my arm.

"Okay," he agreed, giving me the impression that he was perhaps a little reluctant.

"If you didn't like it, we don't have to do it again. Maybe just hug sometimes," I replied, hiding my disappointment.

"No!" he protested. "I did really like it. But I was worried it might become too, erm, sexy."

Of course, I would have liked it to become more sexy, but I didn't want him to feel uncomfortable, and I certainly didn't want to risk causing distress to my best friend.

"You know I'd never do anything you don't want," I assured him, moving a little away from him and looking into his beautiful eyes. "Can you give me an idea of what you think may be too sexy?"

He frowned and looked down a little, and I wondered if he might be checking out my groin, where there was no erection and just a slight chub. After thinking for a few seconds, he spoke.

"Well, I guess it can't just be getting a stiffy," he said with an embarrassed smile, "because I get them all the time, no matter what I happen to be doing. I'll think about it and tell you later."

Had anyone else said that, I'd have suspected that they'd just be trying to delay the discussion in the hope of avoiding it completely. However, when Pat told me he'd do something later, then he certainly intended to do so.

"Oaky," I said, "do you want to go back to the game?"

After having a drink of apple juice, we went back to the game, but he was obviously distracted and not playing as well as usual, so it wasn't long before he lost.

"I've been thinking," he said slowly as I was unplugging the console. "I really like the hugs and cuddles, and I really want to keep doing that, but we have to stop before it gets too sexy."

"That's fine," I replied. "I'll aways stop whatever we're doing as soon as you say so. But can you give me an idea what you mean about 'getting too sexy'?"

The delay before he replied was relatively short, indicating to me that he'd already been thinking about the matter.

"Okay," he said tentatively, watching me closely and monitoring my reaction, as if seeking my approval. "It's not sex if we keep our clothes on. It's not sex if we don't touch our dicks. It's not sex if we don't kiss."

"Not even a kiss like my mum gives me?" I teased. "Not even a little peck on the cheek?"

"Well, maybe that, but definitely no wet kisses and definitely not when anybody can see."

"Alright," I agreed, "obviously anything, even just holding hands, has to be only in private."

"You're sure that you're okay with the no-sex thing?" he asked doubtfully. "I mean, I know you, and I can tell you'd really like to do it. Maybe it would be better for you if we went back to being just friends again, with no cuddles and stuff."

"I don't think we were ever 'just friends'," I said. "In one way or another, I've loved you ever since we met as little kids, long before I knew anything about sex. Over the past few years I've also realised how attractive you are, and I've, erm, had lots of fantasies about you. Sex would be great, but being with you is great without sex."

"But you hope that I'll change my mind about not having sex," he said, almost as an accusation.

"I hope for lots of things. I hope that I'll get good exam results and become a doctor, and I hope my parents win the lottery. Some hopes are more possible than others. But, yes, when you think about things for yourself instead of just accepting what others say, I do hope you'll maybe change your mind."

Prompted by his frowning silence, I continued, "I mean, we didn't choose to be gay. I think that it would be incredibly cruel for God to make me like this and then send me to eternal torture if I show my love sexually. The God in the Gospels isn't cruel."

"But what if I never change my mind?" he asked sadly. "Maybe it would be better if you found someone else."

"I'll wait, but even if you never change your mind, I'd always rather be with you than with anyone else." Then, attempting to lighten the tone, I added, "Maybe sometime just before you die, you could have sex and then go to Confession, get absolution, and go straight to Heaven."

Surprisingly, his expression gave me the impression that he was giving serious thought to my joking suggestion.

"We'll have the house to ourselves for at least another hour," I pointed out. "That's plenty of time for a cuddle."

"But what if someone comes home early?"

"Let's go upstairs," I suggested.

He was a little surprised when I clasped his hand, but he happily allowed me to lead him up to my room.

For the next few weeks, we got together for hugs and cuddles whenever we were alone in my house. We coyly referred to our activities as 'getting affectionate'. Sadly, once the school holidays were over, the opportunity for private time together didn't occur often. During that school term, we did manage to have one sleepover at my home, and we had a brief cuddle before getting changed into our sleeping clothes, but Pat was inhibited by the presence of others in the house.

Whatever we did in our private time together, it didn't affect the public activities and interactions we'd always had. Everything remained the same at school, and our other activities went on as usual. We went cycling whenever we had the opportunity, and we often met up at one of our houses for homework, games, or TV. If my parents, who now knew I was gay, suspected anything, they showed no sign of it.

Not long after the middle of term, Pat learned that he'd got second prize in the writing competition. I was more disappointed than he was, and even though I hadn't read any of the other entries, I felt sure he should have won. However, Pat had read the story that won first prize and accepted that it deserved to win. When he pointed out that the winner was a young woman who had more writing experience than he did, I told him that when he was her age, he'd be much better than she was.

As for our more intimate interactions, I was very careful to stay within the limits of what he'd defined as 'not sex', but within those limits he usually took the lead in being more adventurous. That eased my mind because I'd been a little concerned that he might have thought I was seducing him into changing his attitude toward sex. However, I also felt that whatever influence I might be having on him was only reversing the brainwashing that he'd been subjected to by his parents and the church.

I was optimistic about the future, and I hoped that his teen-male hormones would eventually enable him to overcome his religious programming. I firmly believed that I could wait until that time came. Also, I had faith that whatever happened, our friendship would not be damaged.

Our intimate encounters took place either in my living room or my bedroom, where one of his favourite positions was lying face to face, cuddling, hugging, and exchanging chaste kisses. At the beginning of the summer holidays, we took the opportunity for a leisurely session on my bed, and it wasn't long before we ended up in his favourite position. It had been more than a week since our last time 'getting affectionate', and we were both eager.

As we hugged tightly, I nuzzled his neck, revelling in his scent. Suddenly, he pulled me even harder toward him, then he thrust his groin into mine and moaned. From the way that his body stiffened and shook, I knew he was having an orgasm. As soon as it finished, he got up and went to the bathroom without saying a word or even looking at me. I expected that he'd return as soon as he'd cleaned himself up, but when he exited the bathroom, I heard him rushing down the stairs. Then the front door slammed shut.

At first, I thought that he'd dashed home to change his clothes and that he'd just been in too much of a hurry to say goodbye. As he'd been wearing dark blue jeans and had gone to clean up quickly, I didn't expect that there would be an obviously visible damp patch as he cycled home, so I didn't think the incident was a big deal. If it had happened to me, I'd have been a little embarrassed but would have laughed it off.

After all the years that I'd known Pat, however, I should have understood him better, and it didn't take long for me to realise that it had actually been a very big deal for him. That was confirmed when my calls to him went straight to voicemail and there was no response to my texts. By the time that I was considering going to his house, I guessed that his mother would be home, and I decided against it.

That night, I got very little sleep, and what little I did get was haunted by unpleasant dreams. When there was still no response from him the next morning, I decided to wait until I was sure his parents were at work and then go to see him. However, as I was getting ready to leave, he called me.

"Pat," I almost shouted into the phone, "Are you okay? Why have you been ignoring me?"

"I turned off my phone," he replied, sounding a little upset. "I needed time to think and pray."

"Why don't you come over and we can talk about it?"

"I want to talk to you," he said nervously, "but not in a private place. Somewhere public, but where no one can hear what we say."

I had to consider that for a few seconds, not only trying to work out what was going on in his mind but also thinking about a suitable place to meet.

"How about Queen's Park?" I suggested. "The bunch of trees by the narrow end of Swan Lake could be okay."

That was what we locals called it, but although there were a few swans, it was actually far too small to be considered a real lake. However, we both knew it well; it was easy to get to by bike, and at short notice it was the only place I could think of that fit his requirements. We agreed to meet there in half an hour, and then he immediately said 'bye' and hung up.

Concerned and anxious, I arrived at the meeting place about ten minutes before the agreed time and so had a nervous wait that seemed to last forever. When he arrived, looking apprehensive and unhappy, I had to fight the desire to hug him. At that time of the morning of a working day, there were few people around, and those that were in sight were too far away to hear us unless we were shouting.

"So, is all this about the little, erm, accident yesterday?" I asked, just to get the conversation started.

"Yeah," he replied, embarrassed. "It should never have happened."

"I bet it would've happened to me, too," I admitted, "if I didn't take precautions."

"Precautions?" he echoed, giving me a surprised and doubting look.

"I usually have a quick wank before we get affectionate."

"You never told me that," he accused, frowning.

"What would I have said? How about, 'Hi, Pat, don't forget to have a wank before you visit today'?" I asked, perhaps a little too sarcastically. "I just expected that you'd think of that for yourself."

"Well, what happened yesterday was sex," he replied, showing his annoyance, "and we said we wouldn't do sex."

I thought about that for a couple of seconds. Personally, I had no objection to sex, but in one respect, he might have been correct in thinking that an orgasm did mean it was sex. However, his attitude seemed very confused to me.

"I guess some people would say cumming means it's sex, but you cum when you wank on your own, so it's only partly sex," I said, trying to understand the way he thought about things. "What happened yesterday was like just wanking while I was there. Isn't that almost the same as wanking and cumming if you're thinking about me?"

"I try not to," he said, looking guilty.

"You try not to think about me, or you try not to wank?" I asked, intending it to be a joke.

"I try not to wank, and when I can't help it, I try not to think about you," he said seriously.

Until then, although I'd known how devoutly religious his upbringing had been, I hadn't realised just how deeply it had been ingrained into his mind. Now I began to understand why, apart from an occasional slightly embarrassed joke, he'd never talked about sex.

"Wanking is normal," I pointed out patiently. "Everyone does it. I've been doing it since I was ten."

"I try to resist temptation, but I can't help doing it. Sometimes two or even three times per week," he admitted, apparently ashamed of himself. "But it's still a sin."

"Seems to me like the church says anything to do with sex is a sin," I pointed out, "but you can still think for yourself."

"You can't pick and choose which bits of the teaching you follow," he said disapprovingly, giving me the impression he was quoting someone; maybe it was something that his parents or a priest had said.

"I bet most males masturbate, even Catholics," I said with conviction. "They just ignore the fact that the church says it's a sin. And there must be lots of Catholic couples who use contraception despite what the church says about that. After all, I'm an only child, so either my parents are infertile or they use contraception, because I can't believe that they've not had sex since I was born."

He looked shocked, possibly at the idea of my parents having sex, and then his expression became one of annoyance. That made me realise that my semi-jocular comments would apply equally to his parents.

"Lots of Catholics pick and choose," I continued quickly. "There are unmarried couples who have sex, and they still consider themselves to be Catholics, even though church teaching says that they're living in sin."

"But it's still sin," he persisted, frustrated and frowning.

"In that case, the vast majority of Catholics commit some sexual sins. Personally, I don't believe that any consenting loving action can be a sin, but if it is, then I'm prepared to live with it," I said with determination. "And there are lots of gay people who still consider themselves to be Catholic."

"How do you know there are lots of gay Catholics?" he challenged.

"Just go online and search. You'll find lots of groups all over the world."

"You know Mum and Dad check my phone and computer," he said dismissively. "I can't search for things like that."

"You can use my phone or use my laptop," I offered.

"Maybe I'll think about it," he said doubtfully.

"You never said why you wanted to meet here instead of at my house," I said, remembering why we were in the park.

"I think it's a bad idea for us to be in private together," he replied. "Ya know, after the, erm, accident."

"Are you afraid I'll molest you?" I asked, feeling hurt that he might not trust me. "And you can take precautions against having another accident."

"No!" he protested so loudly that I was afraid he might be overheard. Then, in a hushed voice, he continued, "I'm afraid I'm the one who'll molest you. When I'm with you in private, I don't know if I can resist the temptation to, you know, get affectionate. And, well, I might even want another accident."

"And I want to be with you as much as possible, especially in private. So what do we do?" I asked, perplexed.

"On Saturday, I'll be going on holiday with Mum and Dad," he reminded me, "and we'll be away for a couple of weeks. That'll give me time to think and pray. Then we can talk more when I get back."

He and his parents were going on a tour of holy sites such as Lourdes, Santiago de Compostela, and Rome. I had a sinking feeling that being with his devout parents in such sacred places would only confirm his belief in the basically sinful nature of sex.

"What about before you go?" I asked hopefully.

"We can meet up in your house if we're not alone there."

Then, obviously eager to switch to a neutral subject, he brought up the topic of my family's vacation plans. I'd previously told him that we were going to go on day trips during the first week of their vacation and that my parents were going to Ireland for the second week. It was their twentieth anniversary, and they were going to the places they'd visited on their honeymoon.

"Didn't you want to go to Ireland?" he asked.

"Probably someday, but not this trip," I replied with a smirk. "Having a teenage son with you on a second honeymoon would be, erm, uncomfortable for everyone."

"Oh, yeah, I hadn't thought of it like that," he said, embarrassed. "So I guess they trust you to be alone at home."

"I'm fifteen," I said, frowning. "And until our little talk today, I was hoping that I wouldn't be alone."

Clearly feeling uncomfortable, he looked away from me and remained silent for a few seconds. Then, as we wheeled our bikes towards the nearest park entrance, he reverted to the previous topic and asked what specific places my family and I might visit during our week of day trips.

While Pat was away, we exchanged texts frequently, but we couldn't say much because his parents might be monitoring. Despite the fact that I wanted to let him know how much I missed him and how much I loved him, our brief messages were just about places, weather, foods, and such banal topics. On the Friday afternoon he arrived home, he called me just to let me know that all was well and that he was busy unpacking and settling back in. Then he said he had to go but that he'd call again the next day.

"I missed you," was the first thing he said when he called the following morning.

"I missed you, too," I replied fervently.

"Sorry, I couldn't talk yesterday. Mum and Dad had me helping with unpacking, sorting laundry, and stuff. Then I felt really tired and went to bed early. Anyway, they've just gone out grocery shopping."

"Can you come over later?" I asked hopefully.

"I'd really like to, but Dad wants me to help in the garden. It's turned into a jungle while we were away."

"Can I come and help?" I asked.

"You don't like gardening," he said doubtfully.

"But I get to see you and to earn some brownie points with your parents," I pointed out.

The state of the garden surprised me when I arrived at Pat's house. Perhaps it hadn't quite become a jungle, but a couple of weeks of neglect during the peak growing season meant that there was a lot of pruning, weeding, and lawnmowing to do. His dad was glad of my help, and I was so happy to see Pat that I didn't mind the fact that it was a lot more work than I'd expected.

There was no opportunity to speak with my best friend privately, but both he and his parents raved about what a great time they'd had. Apparently, the trip wasn't dedicated only to religious devotion, but they also spent a lot of time in museums and historical sites, especially while they were in Rome. As they described the things they'd seen and done, I became quite envious.

Pat had brought back an illustrated book on Italian Renaissance art as a present for me. His parents gave me a small bottle of holy water, apparently blessed by the Pope himself. I silently wondered what I might do with that. Then I suppressed a smile as I considered the unlikely possibility that I could keep it by my bedside and use it to repel any vampires that might attack me in the night.

After an afternoon of backbreaking work, I was eager to get home, have a shower, and take a closer look at Pat's gift. I was sitting at the kitchen table and had only just started looking at the book when my parents arrived home from a trip to buy clothes for their vacation.

"That's a gorgeous book,"Mum commented, looking over my shoulder. "It looks expensive."

"It's a present from Pat."

"Oh," she replied, sounding a little surprised. Then, in a teasing tone, she added, "Some of the pictures look a bit, erm, rude."

"It's art, Mum," I said with a joking pretentiousness.

Pat called just as we finished our evening meal, and as soon as Mum found out who it was, she shouted out 'Hi, Pat!" and instructed him to come over soon and tell us all about his trip. Then, promising my parents that I'd be back to clear the table, I took my phone upstairs and sat on my bed.

"It's okay. We can talk in private now," I said.

"Well, the really important stuff is better when I see you," he replied.

"I'm guessing that you don't mean when I see you at Mass tomorrow," I joked.

"Yeah, right," he said with theatrical sarcasm. "Standing around with our parents outside church would be great for a really private chat."

"How about after lunch?"

"Benediction," he reminded me. "And after that, I want to do an outline for an article about Rome while the thoughts are still fresh. I wrote notes during the trip, but they were more about places and what happened, and not much about how they made me feel."

"Monday, then?" I suggested hopefully.

"Before we talk about important stuff, I need to do a bit more online research and then do some thinking and praying," he replied cryptically.

"Okay," I said, not even trying to hide my disappointment.

"We can still meet up, just like we've always done," he said quickly, trying to reassure me. "But I need more time to sort things out before we talk about the more, erm, personal stuff."

"Okay," I said again, feeling a deep sense of foreboding.

"Anyway, do you like the present I got you?" he asked, quickly changing the topic of conversation.

"Yeah, it's great," I replied, "but I've not had time for a proper look yet. Mum saw a couple of pages and joked that it was rude. How did you get your parents to let you buy it?"

"It's weird," he said thoughtfully. "If it's art, especially religious art by famous people, they don't seem to mind a bit of nudity if the, erm, naughty bits are discreet. Maybe they think that it can't be too evil if the Pope allows it to be put on show, especially in the Vatican."

"I thought your trip would be all religion and praying at holy sites," I said, "but it seems you had a good time."

"It was really great," he enthused. "The only bad thing was that it was all so crowded. Some places felt special, but there was no chance to just sit quietly and take it in."

Most of the rest of our conversation, which was too brief from my point of view, involved his experiences during their trip.

At church the following day, from an outsider's perspective, I'm sure that everything was just as it had been for years, but internally, my emotions were churning. I wanted to hug Pat; I wanted to drag him away to a quiet, private place; I wanted to express my frustration at the way it seemed his devotion to religion was getting in the way of our love. However, I obviously couldn't do any of those things.

Pat behaved just as he'd always done, and I was relieved that we were still best friends. After church in the afternoon, we talked about the article he was writing, and it was taken for granted by both of us that I would be the first one to read it. In the evening, he called and suggested we go for a bike ride the following afternoon.

As we rode out into the countryside, he was relatively subdued, and when we reached a quiet spot near a small copse of trees, he pulled over into the shade.

"I'm sorry if you think I'm messing you about," he said when I stopped next to him. "Honestly, I'm not, but I think it would be worse if we talked about, erm, important stuff before I've made up my mind."

"It's okay," I replied, trying to reassure him, despite my own worries and concerns. "I know how difficult this whole love thing is for you."

"Oh, the love isn't difficult," he protested unhappily. "Deciding what to do about it is difficult, especially if what I decide might hurt you."

"Is there anything I can do to help?" I asked, my heart aching at seeing him so troubled.

"No, thanks. You've already helped a lot, and just knowing you're there makes me feel better. Now it's up to me, but I think it won't be long before I get myself sorted out."

The ride continued for another hour or so, during which he was much quieter than usual, and I did my best not to interrupt his thoughts. The following morning, we went on another bike ride because we both wanted to be together, but Pat still seemed reluctant to be alone in private. However, we'd neglected to check the weather forecast, and within half an hour of setting off, we got soaked by heavy rain.

That afternoon, Pat called me and asked if I wanted to spend the evening at his house. I eagerly accepted the invitation, though I knew that we'd get little privacy because his parents would be home. However, I realised that the same lack of privacy would probably make him feel more comfortable. As it turned out, I very much enjoyed my time with him, and it felt like we were back in the good old times before we'd mentioned being in love.

Just after breakfast the next day, Pat called and asked if he could come round to see me at my house after lunch. Of course, I instantly agreed, thinking that perhaps it meant that he'd come to some conclusion after all his recent deliberations and prayers. He knew that Mum and Dad would be at work, and he must have realised that we'd be alone in the house. Although I was hopeful that his decision would be one that I'd like, I was still concerned.

On the plus side, he'd agreed to come over and spend time alone with me in private, but on the negative side, he seemed to be as devoutly religious as ever. While he was away, I'd resigned myself to the possibility that he'd decide that we should never be more than best friends. However, being without him for just a couple of weeks was enough to convince me that even the most platonic relationship would be infinitely better than losing him completely.

When I let him in, he was grinning broadly, and when he declined the offer of a drink, I led him through to the living room.

"Do you want a hug?" he asked as soon as we got there.

His face was blank and his voice was neutral, but I knew him well enough to realise that he was pretending, and from the glint in his eyes, I could tell that he was teasing me. For a fraction of a second, it crossed my mind to retaliate by saying that I didn't. However, that idea was immediately discarded because I was so desperate to hold him.

"I really, really missed hugging you," I whispered as we held each other tightly.

"Let's talk," he said after a couple of minutes, gently untangling himself from my grip.

Unwilling to lose all physical contact, I held his hand as we went to the sofa and sat at an angle so we could look into each other's eyes. Then I waited for him to speak first.

"Being away from you for so long was tough," he said, "but it gave me time to think about things, especially what you said about picking and choosing. And while I was thinking about that, I saw lots of beautiful things and found out a lot about art and the popes in the Renaissance."

"Okay," I replied, nodding slowly, "and I guess that's the sort of thing that's been on your mind since you got back."

"Yeah. Anyway, some of the great paintings and sculptures were male nudes, and some of those were by gay artists. From what I found out, it seems some of the popes and clergy knew the artists were big sinners and ignored it. The church allowed lots of bad things to happen, even cutting off boys' balls so they could be kept in the choir," he said, clearly horrified by the idea.

"If they cut my balls off, I'd refuse ever to sing ever again," I replied. "And I'd spend the rest of my life getting revenge."

"Actually," he said without acknowledging my comment, "it seems lots of sins were ignored, even the fact that popes had mistresses and children."

"At least they weren't sinning by using contraception!" I joked.

He smiled, but otherwise ignored my interruption and continued, "Even my parents made an exception about nudity if it was old religious art. So it seems that people, even popes, sometimes pick and choose which church teachings they follow."

He sighed and looked a little sad. There wasn't really much I could think of to say, but I knew for certain that saying 'I told you so' would be a very bad move.

"Then," he said, "I wondered what was the point of the church's teachings if people just ignored the ones they didn't like. And if we're all sinners, why does God still love us, and why not just send us all to Hell? But then I thought about all the beauty of the paintings, sculptures, architecture, and music that's been created by sinners."

He was gazing into my eyes, presumably trying to see if I understood him, or maybe waiting for me to comment, or perhaps thinking that I might have some answers. However, I wasn't sure I understood, and I certainly didn't have any answers.

"And did you come to any conclusions?" I asked, gently squeezing his hand.

"I think God loves us because of beauty. People can be beautiful, there's beauty in doing good deeds, and we can create beautiful things. And people can appreciate the beauty that God created. Because of all that, the ugly, sinful things we do can be forgiven."

I didn't follow most of his reasoning, and what little I understood, I didn't really agree with. In my opinion, God was more like a comedian, and people weren't the audience, but the jokes. However, I was happy that Pat's thinking had clearly brought some ease to his previously troubled mind. Although his happiness was my main concern, I was also selfishly wondering how all of that would affect our relationship.

"Anyway, after all that thinking, how do you feel about us?" I asked.

"Of course I still love you," he replied with conviction. "Love is one of the most beautiful things."

At that point, I felt that perhaps he'd gone from being a devout Catholic to becoming a devout hippie. I wondered if he'd been reading about the 1960s and 1970s and drug culture. Still, I thought it was all good if it made him happier accepting that we loved each other.

"And what about sex?" I asked tentatively.

"It depends," he replied cryptically.

"What about us, erm, getting affectionate together?"

"That's fine if nobody finds out."

"And if one of us cums?" I asked, seeing how far I could push the topic.

"Ah, that reminds me," he said, suddenly flashing a cheeky smile. "We need balance and fairness about that."

"What does that mean?"

"Well, you sort of cheated before," he teased, "by taking precautions so that I was the only one who was embarrassed by messing my pants. That was unfair, so the next time we get affectionate, you have to be embarrassed as well."

I tilted my head and gave a puzzled frown. Although I had an idea about what he was implying, I didn't want to be the one to say it openly.

"Isn't it obvious?" he said. "So that we're even and you can feel how embarrassed I was, you need to cum in your pants next time we get affectionate. Then we can go on from there."

I decided there was no point in telling him that, far from being embarrassing, the idea of cumming while we were pressing bodies together, even while still clothed, was extremely arousing for me. Then I was struck by something else he'd said.

"What do you mean by 'go on from there'?" I asked.

"We can see where it goes, obviously," he said, rolling his eyes. "Going slowly, no plan, just go with the flow when we both feel ready."

"You've been thinking about this a lot," I commented, trying to hide the fact that inwardly I was jumping for joy.

"But no matter what," he continued earnestly, looking into my eyes to show how serious he was, "there won't be any bum stuff."

Bearing in mind that just an hour or so earlier I'd been wondering if there'd even be any more cuddles, that particular red line didn't bother me at all.

"Okay," I agreed readily. "So can we have a cuddle now?"

"Yeah," he replied, opening his arms wide. "But no getting really affectionate. You've got to have two days without wanking before we do that."

As we cuddled together and I savoured his scent, I was amazed at how much just a couple of weeks on a religious tour had changed him. Although I didn't agree with what little I understood of his new philosophy, at least it allowed him to be happier about us being together.

Three days later, we met up in my house to 'get affectionate'. As instructed, I hadn't wanked for two days, and I was almost in danger of ejaculating merely as a result of our prolonged hug of greeting. However, I controlled myself, and we went up to my bedroom. We hugged and cuddled, but at first he deliberately avoided putting any pressure on my groin area.

After a few minutes, and what to me felt like an eternity, he grabbed me tightly and started humping his groin into mine. After just a very short time, I started to have a wonderful orgasm, and he stopped moving but still maintained a gentle pressure between us. Unlike when it had happened to him, I didn't immediately get up and dash to the bathroom but instead basked in the afterglow until my sticky wet underwear began to feel uncomfortable.

When I went to the bathroom, I didn't bother locking the door and quickly removed my jeans. Just as I was about to push down my underwear, Pat opened the door and stepped inside. When he saw me, he smirked in an annoyingly self-satisfied way.

"What do you want?" I asked, both surprised and slightly irritated by his intrusion.

"You came so fast, I wanted to make sure you weren't just faking it."

"It was fast because I haven't wanked for two days, and the thought of doing that with you was really hot," I replied. "Anyway, you know I wouldn't cheat you by faking it."

"Yeah, I know, but…" He paused and looked uncomfortable. "Well, I just wanted to see."

"Well, if you wanted to see me embarrassed, you're out of luck," I said bluntly.

That was only partially true; my orgasm hadn't been embarrassing, but having him watch me clear up the mess made me feel awkward and self-conscious. He knew me well enough to realise how I felt, but he didn't leave. Although he tried to avoid doing so, his gaze kept drifting down to my soggy genitals.

"Are you just going to stay there?" I said with a hint of sarcasm.

"Do you mind?" he asked hopefully.

Suddenly, it occurred to me that the sort of interest he was showing in me was exactly what I'd wanted and had been waiting for. Immediately, any feelings of annoyance or awkwardness began to disappear and were replaced by a sort of bashful arousal as I peeled down my wet underwear.

"Now I know what TMJ stands for," he commented.

"Erm, you mean my initials, Terence Mark Jacobs?" I replied, confused.

"No," he said with a smirk. "Too Much Jizz."

When I turned around to grab some toilet paper to wipe up the mess, he left the room. Had he stayed any longer, he would have seen my dick start to become erect again.

Some of the mess had gotten on the bottom of my shirt, and after cleaning myself up, I returned to my bedroom with only a towel wrapped around my waist. Pat was sitting on my bed, flicking through TV channels and behaving as if nothing unusual had happened.

"I'm thirsty," he said as I went to select some clean clothes.

"You know where the fridge is," I replied, happy and a little surprised at his casual demeanour. "Help yourself."

Not wishing to leave any evidence for my parents to find, as soon as I'd dressed, I sprayed air freshener in the bathroom. Then I put my dirty clothes in the washing machine and ensured they would be clean before Mum and Dad came home.

I'd hoped that a new stage in our relationship would start after that. However, the rest of the day and the following few days were just the same as they'd been before, with no mention of me having an orgasm with him. Presumably, his desire for 'fairness' had been satisfied, and I didn't want to rock the boat by trying to force him to talk about it.

In fact, he avoided any mention of the physical expression of our shared love. When we were alone, we held hands, cuddled, or hugged. When our 'getting affectionate' sessions occasionally happened, he avoided humping our groins together. He'd said that he wanted to take things slowly and see how they developed, and it seemed that he still needed more time to assimilate his sexuality into his beliefs. Although I would have preferred things to progress more quickly, my patience had so far been rewarded, so I decided to wait and let him decide what happened next.

Shortly before the start of my parents' vacation, we had a sleepover. My hope that it might involve some physical intimacy was disappointed, and Pat said he didn't want to get affectionate while my parents were in the house. Of course, I still very much enjoyed the feeling of closeness when we shared the bedroom, chatting and joking as we fell asleep.

The foldaway bed that he slept in was always placed very close to my bed, so if I was awake when he was sleeping, I could hear his breathing and his occasional gentle snore. Over the years, whenever I woke early in the mornings of our sleepovers, I'd study his sleeping form in the pale light until I fell back into sleep. Even if he lay in a position in which I couldn't see his face, just seeing the shape of his body under the duvet was enough to make me feel content.

During the first week of my parents' vacation, Pat joined us on our day trips. We both enjoyed visiting ancient buildings, though he preferred cathedrals and I preferred castles. On one particularly warm and sunny day, we went to the seaside, and I got to see his beautiful body when he was wearing just swim shorts. Fortunately, knowing the likelihood of me getting erections, I'd had the foresight to wear close-fitting briefs under my own shorts.

At the end of that week, he asked my parents if he could stay in our house and keep me company while they were in Ireland. When he confirmed that his own parents were happy with the idea, my mum and dad agreed. He hadn't consulted me, so I was both surprised and delighted by this development.

"You never told me that you were planning this," I said to him as soon as we were alone.

"I didn't want you to be disappointed if my mum and dad didn't agree to the idea. They didn't agree until last might, and I couldn't wait to ask your parents. Sorry if it took you by surprise, but I didn't think you'd mind."

"Of course I don't mind. It's a wonderful surprise," I assured him. "But how did you get your parents to agree?"

"When I told your parents that my mum and dad were happy with the idea, I guess it was a bit of an exaggeration," he said with a crafty smile. "Actually, they agreed that it would be better if you weren't alone, but they said they preferred you to stay with us. It took me a while to persuade them, but they eventually accepted that you'd be happier and more comfortable in your own home while your parents were away."

On the day my parents set off for Ireland, Pat came over in time to say goodbye to them, and after they'd gone, we had lunch together. In the afternoon, we went for a bike ride, then he went home for a shower and to collect some clothes and personal items for his overnight stay. We spent the evening at my house, mostly cuddling together on the sofa and watching TV.

Getting ready for bed that night, following our usual routine, Pat went to the bathroom and brushed his teeth while I put on my T-shirt and pyjama shorts. Then I went to the bathroom while he changed into his sleeping clothes. When I returned to the bedroom, the lights had been turned off, and the only illumination was from the small reading lamp on my bedside cabinet.

At first, I couldn't comprehend or believe what I was seeing. The foldaway bed had been pushed aside, and Pat was sitting up in my bed. He was smiling at me with an expression that somehow combined nervousness, anticipation, and happiness. For a few seconds, I just stood in the doorway and stared at the scene before me.

"What're you waiting for?" he asked playfully, flipping back the corner of the duvet as an invitation to join him.

That was the first night we shared a bed, and the last night we wore any clothes when we slept together. By the end of the week… well, it was worth the wait!

Iomfats.org

What're You Waiting For?

by Kit

Voting

We support Ukraine — Мы поддерживаем Украину — Ми підтримуємо Україну

We support Ukraine — Мы поддерживаем Украину — Ми підтримуємо Україну