On the Thursday evening we walk back to the pub in the village for another meal, Paul allowing himself a couple of drinks with me. It’ll be twilight until probably eleven and we can walk back home before it gets dark.

We’re sitting at a corner table, bellies full and drinks in front of us. We’ve got our arms around each other and are cuddling in pretty close when I distinctly hear an English voice mutter “not more fuckin’ faggots” loud enough for the whole bar to hear. There is a bit of an intake of breath from several people who I’m pretty sure might be locals.

Paul moves as if he’s going to stand instantly, and I have to hold him in place, not wanting trouble. I know he’s an intimidating sight, well over six foot and built to match. I’m not exactly small myself and, if we do get up, the two responsible will probably shit themselves.

The landlord is at their table in seconds, fists balled. He’s short, a little older than me and wiry. He looks tough. “Fuck off out, you southern bigots.” When they hesitate, he continues, “Don’t make me get my partner to throw you out.”

They look like they want to argue the toss, one of them even laughs out loud “What’s she going to do!”, but the landlord just looks over his shoulder and calls “Jack!” A huge bear of a man, easily six-foot six and twenty stone stands from his seat at the end of the bar. He looks like he has muscles on his muscles and a close-cropped haircut adds to the aura of menace. “Chuck these bastards out!” Suddenly, there’s a lot of movement and our two unwanted guests are rushing for the door.

The landlord comes over to our table with a big grin on his face. “Sorry about that, guys.”

“No problem,” I tell him.

“Didn’t know if they were talking about you two or me and Jack. Fucking bigoted cunts.”

“We’re not out back home,” Paul tells him. “Never had to deal with outright homophobia. I would have smacked one or both of them, if Alan hadn’t held me back.” I can tell from his voice that he’s a little shaken, but more pumped up on adrenaline than afraid.

“Well, Jack and I have been here for nearly twenty years now and all the locals just accept us. Always the bloody English who want to start trouble.” He stops in mid-sentence. “Fuck, ye’re not English are ye?”

“No, relax. We’re from the Isle of Man and feel the same way about the English as you do.” I tell him with a grin, not mentioning that Paul is a recent arrival to our shores.

“Good enough then. Have another drink on us before you leave. I’m Mick, by the way.”

By the time we’ve finished another drink and chatted with both Mick and Jack a little, it’s getting well in to twilight. “We’d best be off,” I tell them, standing up. “Got to get the youngster home before it gets dark!”

“Piss off, Daddy,” Paul mutters under his breath. Everyone has a laugh at the joke, and Paul’s grinning like a teenager. Oh, yeah!

“It’s our last day tomorrow, but we’ll probably be in for lunch,” I tell them. “Thanks again for your hospitality guys, it was nice to get to meet you both.”

Jack follows us to the door, quietly checking that there’s no trouble waiting for us outside. “Used to be a bouncer in Glasgow,” he tells me as we leave. “Won’t take any shit from anyone!”

“It’s all clear Jack,” I tell him as we step out. “Thanks again.”

There’s still enough light to be seen, but I’ve made a point of wearing a light shirt and the road is wide enough to give us plenty of room to walk along safely. That extra pint might be making itself felt though, as neither of us are really drinkers. I’m definitely feeling that buzz that comes with a sensible amount of alcohol. 

We’re not exactly wobbling or anything, but it’s nice to have someone to lean on and Paul has his arm around my waist to keep us steady.

Paul’s bouncing from foot to foot as I fumble with the key. “I’m going to piss myself if you don’t hurry,” he whispers. I’m in a similar state and, as I finally get the door open and he dashes for the toilet, I follow him right in and stand beside him. We pull out together and our streams mix in the air as we both get some much-needed relief. When we’re done, I grab a single sheet of toilet paper and dab the last couple of drops from the end of my cock before dropping the tissue and flushing.

As we are washing our hands Paul asks “Do you always wipe yourself like that?”

“No, not really. I just do it when I’m going to be with you. Just don’t want you to taste it I guess.”

“Oh, I never even thought about it. The fact that we might taste of pee, I mean. You obviously do think about it. That’s sweet.”

“Honestly, I’ve no idea what it might taste like, and we probably do taste it, at least residually, when we suck cock. It doesn’t bother me, but I don’t want you to get intimate with me dripping pee from my tip.”

“You really are an over-thinker, aren’t you?”

“Yes. And, just to be clear, this doesn’t mean we’re going to pee on one another when we have sex!”

“No, no, the thought never entered my mind,” Paul mutters urgently. “Erm… do people actually do that?”

“That’s what I understand. People do all sorts of things in private! Oh, and before you ask, you’re not getting to tie me up either!”

“Again, no, I never…”

“Actually,” I whisper after a few moments, “Let’s just quietly put that one on the back burner for a little while longer. I think I’d need to know you a lot better.”

Paul’s eyes go wide with surprise, but he doesn’t say a word, suddenly thoughtful as he takes my hand and leads me to the bedroom.

Slightly tipsy, slightly drowsy, we undress slowly and fall into bed. Paul wraps me in a tight, but gentle embrace from behind and allows his hands to wander. When my arousal matches his, he slowly enters me and gently fucks me until we both release and fall almost immediately into a deep, slightly drunken sleep.