I may have already mentioned in passing that I’m a bit of an over-thinker. Scratch that, I’m the very definition of an over-thinker. I just can’t help myself. I have to analyse every little detail, every aspect of the problem.

I sometimes wonder if it is a computer programmer’s thing. When I’m writing software, I have to be aware of all the possibilities, all the pitfalls and the potential for future development or expansion. In that sense, I’m an analyst and a programmer and, even though I’ve never been taught how to do it, it seems to come quite naturally to me.

Coding, a little like taking photographs, draws my mind into a different space. Writing a program is a deeply creative process and I can sometimes lose all track of time as I work. When I find a problem, I can be tenacious, not wanting to quit until I have it solved. My photography is similar, I can be patient when the need arises, waiting for the right light, or moving endlessly to find the best location and viewpoint.

Now, however, I find myself over-thinking my life. I’m suddenly out of what has always been my comfort zone, but I still feel very comfortable, despite, or perhaps because of, the new thoughts and feelings that are threatening to overwhelm me.

Paul and I, simultaneously, without knowing that we were doing it, have been working towards the same target. We’ve both engineered and manipulated our growing friendship into something more. Apparently, it was what we both wanted and simply neither of us could see the wood for the trees.

Up to this point, I really never did feel this need for intimacy. Kissing, cuddling, sex; those were things that other people did and I was fine without them. Sure, I needed to manage my sex-drive, but I’d always been capable and content with managing that alone. Right from the start, as soon as I felt the need, I made the most of what I had.

Woody Allen called masturbation ‘Sex with someone you love’ and, despite his other well-publicised failings, he does have a fairly valid point. Right from my first uncoordinated, fumbling teenage orgasm I loved myself. At age fourteen, the first hint of a moustache had darkened my upper lip and I’d gained an astonishing four inches of height in just a few months.

I soon noticed the whisps of hair in my armpits and the beginnings of them around the base of my penis. Actually, because the changes happen over a period of time, they’re not always obvious, but I was sure my cock was getting a bit bigger, actually a lot bigger.

It was certainly getting a lot less predictable. Sure, I’d had erections for as long as I could remember, my little cock standing to attention from time to time. Now, though, my fourteen-year-old erections were different, bigger, harder and more persistent.

I never even tried to resist the temptation to touch myself. I found that my rock-hard member was now the perfect size for me to wrap my hand around. My foreskin seemed more mobile than ever and I could pull it all the way back with relative ease. It would slide over my glans and then lock back behind the ridge of my knob-end. I could barely touch myself then, it was so sensitive, but, alone in the shower, I could see how big and smooth and deeply purple it was, a tiny drop of clear liquid forming at the slit.

Boys will be boys and, at school there had been much talk about wanking, and the inevitable jokes and the universally understood hand gestures. Sex education was non-existent, but I think we all knew the basic mechanics of things, whether masturbation or actual sex with girls.

Top-shelf magazines had been sneakily circulated and I’d read enough in them to be familiar with the principles. Pictures of naked centre-folds were titillating, but I never really felt an attraction to any of these women.

I got out of the shower, my cock throbbing, almost painful in its hardness. I dried myself off a little and then, placing the towel on the toilet seat, sat down. Here, behind the locked door of the family bathroom was the privacy I needed to explore myself fully.

My foreskin, still retracted, felt so tight and my glans so engorged that I had to let it loose. With my hand around my shaft, I pushed up gently until my foreskin slid back over the head, releasing some of the pressure. There were a few more drops of sticky clear fluid now and I couldn’t resist the temptation to touch the drops with the tip of my finger and bring it to my lips. It was sickly sweet and both sticky and slimy at the same time, but not unpleasantly so.

It did help with making my skin move over the head easily as I began to stroke my closed hand up and down on my hard shaft.

I knew what I was trying to do, just not sure exactly how to manage the mechanics of it or, indeed, how long it might take. Still, this is mostly instinct, you just do what feels good and it’ll all work out. It didn’t take long for me to get into a rhythm. I’m right-handed and I was using my dominant hand, steadily moving the skin up and down my shaft with a firm grip. The tip of my glans would appear and disappear with each stroke as my skin was drawn first one way then the other.

It was starting to feel good – really good. Deep inside my groin, I could feel a weird, intense, almost burning sensation starting to build. I bet that everybody’s first orgasm is different. Mine was, frankly, mind-blowing.

By the time I realized what was happening, I was at the point of no return, my hand was moving so fast it was almost a blur. I tensed, arching my back involuntarily and closing my eyes as the wave of pleasure engulfed me, my cock throbbing as I slowed my strokes. My legs, now stuck out in front of me, twitched wildly as my balls pumped and my cock pulsed time and time again.

“Fuck!” I mumbled out loud as I finally opened my eyes. I was already going soft in my hand, even before my breathing had slowed to anything like normal. My hand, shaft, wispy pubic hair and even my belly were all covered in drops and smears of milky-white semen.

Well, I thought to myself as I stepped back in to the shower to clean myself off, I can see what people do it for now. I knew I’d need to try that again, and pretty soon.

I don’t think I was ever addicted to masturbation, but I was committed to it. I was horny all the time as a teenager and would often get to that point where I couldn’t concentrate because of a growing urge for release.

When I’d told Paul that I’d been a twenty-times-a-week kid, he’d seemed a little dubious, but I was only telling the truth. I really had been that kid who wanked morning and night, every day. I was that guy, you know, the one who needed to spend break in the bathroom at school to shoot another load.

Walking alone through the footpaths and glens of the Island, I’d find a quiet lonely spot and drop my pants in a wooded glade, at the end of a disused footpath or in the corner of a deserted field for one more frantic release.

My school friends and I never really talked about sex, erections or masturbation, but it was obvious we were all wanking and, as we got a little older, the jokes about it started to fall a little flat. There were always the usual comments about things or people looking or acting ‘gay’ being muttered and I was not an innocent party here either. Deep down, however, I don’t think any of us actually thought that one of us might actually be gay.

Soon enough, they were all, or at least that’s how it seemed to me, getting interested in girls and I was quietly content to take care of myself.

I really didn’t see what they saw, not just in girls, but in the whole idea of being in a relationship. I never seemed to feel any attraction. I’m not sure I can even tell you that I had a crush on anyone, ever. With hindsight, it might be possible for me to see that I’m basically somewhat aromantic.

I don’t easily feel romantic attraction. It’s not impossible, but I need time to let feelings grow and develop. Just like with Paul now, it can take me weeks or even months to begin to feel comfortable with a new friend and even longer before that friendship has any chance of becoming more romantic.

Being aromantic and asexual often go together, but I don’t think that’s the case for me. I do have strong sexual desires, just difficulty finding a person to fulfil those desires with.

 

Now, back in my present, things are different and my thoughts are a jumble of confusion and conflicting emotions. I couldn’t write a program to explain all this or make sense of my feelings. Paul and I had shared a level of intimacy that I never even knew I wanted, but now I’d finally tasted the pleasures of shared intimacy, I knew that I wanted more and, more importantly, I knew who I wanted to share that intimacy with.

Paul and I had, very briefly, agreed to keep our – whatever this thing was – a secret for now, but I was in a bit of a dilemma. Neither of us lived alone and I share the house with my parents and my brother. If we keep on being intimate together at my place, then we are going to get caught out. Sure, I had my privacy, but forgetting to knock on a door is an inevitability and, Paul and I making out in my office/lounge was sure to end in embarrassment.

Taking the opportunity, just a few days after Paul and I had had our mutual oral experience, I offered to accompany Mum into Ramsey for some shopping while Dad contented himself with watching the football.

“You’re spending a lot of time with Paul,” she says as we drive along. “He seems like a really nice lad.”

“Yes. Actually, can I talk to you about him?”

“Of course, Alan, I’m always here to talk.”

“Well, I know he’s a lot younger than I am, but the thing is, we’re becoming more than friends. I don’t know how or why, but we both really like each other. He wants us to be boyfriends and I think I want that too.”

“I did wonder if he was gay, but I didn’t think you were,” she seems perfectly calm, still concentrating on driving along the familiar roads.

“I’m not sure I knew for certain either, until now. When Paul came along, it just felt so comfortable to be with him. One thing’s led to another, we’ve done some intimate things and it all just feels like what we both want. We’re not ready to come out to the world or anything, but I can’t feel comfortable having him come round to our house without you knowing.” I trail off into silence as we pull up outside the house.

Mum turns of the engine and places her hand on top of mine. “I’m glad you told me. I’d already given up any hope that you might have a family, or even find someone to have a life with, but I didn’t think you were gay, just shy and happy on your own. I’m truly delighted you have found someone and it makes no difference to me that it’s a man.”

“I love you, Mum.”

“I love you too. We’ll work things out. Don’t worry about having Paul around. We’ll make sure not to disturb you. I’ll have to tell your dad, but he’ll be fine.”

“Thank you. I feel better now.”

“Good. You tell Paul that he’s always welcome, whenever he likes for as long as he likes. Your brother tends to stick to his room downstairs, so you may not have to tell him anything yet if you don’t want to.”

“Yeah, I’m not sure I am ready for that conversation yet. Paul does want it to be a secret, so the fewer people who know about us the better.”