Two months into my second year of university in Birmingham, I was nineteen and still a virgin. Not out of choice, but probably mostly from lack of trying.
Of course, like most young people, I was horny most of the time, but I was also very shy and socially awkward. I was not really out as being bi, so whilst now I wish I had joined the university LGBT club and gone out a lot more in general, I didn’t. My sexual frustration was not helped by sharing a house with a couple who were fucking noisily every other night, a rather hot Sikh guy, and an Italian girl I fancied but who had a boyfriend back in Italy.
Combined, these factors meant that I, as a bit of a nerd, naturally turned to the Internet for solutions. Porn could only satisfy me for so long, and I soon discovered adult dating sites — this was a few years before smartphones and the apps we have these days. It was on one of these dating sites that I met Dave.
Yes, his real name was Dave. I usually change the names of my partners in true stories to respect their privacy, but it seems pointless with a name as common as Dave. There are probably a hundred thousand Daves in the Birmingham area alone. There are probably a few hundred who used to meet up with younger guys in the early 2000s. In fact, there were probably another five Daves fucking younger guys that same night. But I’m getting ahead of myself.
I had been using the site for about a month when I received his message. He must have received one from me as part of my early amateur, naïve, scattergun approach to Internet dating: I would send a message or wink or poke or whatever it was called (it varied site to site) to anyone who vaguely fitted into my idea of who I would like to fuck.
Dave did not even really fit into this category as he was much older than the limits I had set — according to his profile, he was twice my age at the time. However, it must have been — what else? — his cock pic that drew my interest. Even now, I remember how beautifully thick it was. He did not have a face pic, but then neither did I — I was too paranoid that someone I knew would see it — and, at the time, I was so horny that I didn’t care.
In any case, unlike the vast majority of people to whom I had sent messages, Dave replied. Not only did he reply, but also, after exchanging a couple of preliminary messages, he said that, since he travelled for his work and regularly stayed in hotels in the Birmingham area, he could host the meeting. This was very important for me, as I was not ready for my housemates to find out that I was fucking guys, especially guys as old as him — vague hints that I was bi were about as far as I was prepared to go.
We exchanged messages for a couple of weeks. I even sent him some short clips of myself wanking that I had taken with my digital camera. They were not particularly good videos, but I got a thrill knowing a stranger was watching them, especially when he said that he came thinking of sucking my cock.
Soon enough, we arranged a time to meet. We had swapped face pics by then, and maybe I should have asked for more, but I didn’t really care as long as that cock was his, and a few more photos assured me that it was. We arranged to meet at the main city train station, New Street, at five o’clock on a Saturday afternoon and gave each other our phone numbers to ensure we would not miss each other.
The night before the day of the meeting, I excitedly packed my bag with condoms, lube, and clothes for the following morning. I had been on these dating sites long enough to see plenty of profiles complaining about people wasting other people’s time, and I was determined not to be one of them. However, as the agreed hour crept up, I became ever more nervous and unsure whether I really wanted to go through with it. Nevertheless, I forced myself, insisting that I would regret it if I didn’t at least go to the train station. Once I was there, I told myself I should at least look for Dave. In contrast to my lessening desire for the meeting, I also started to realise how underdressed I was — I had just put on my usual clothes of jeans, trainers, and a black hoodie over a T-shirt for some obscure rock band.
Just as my nerves were about to give in and I was ready to get on the next train home, a voice called out behind me.
“Excuse me, are you Robin?”
I turned, and there he was. I was a bit taken aback. In front of me was a man in a dark blue suit, towering a foot or more above skinny little me. From the little that I could tell whilst he was clothed, his body looked like it would have been muscular and athletic in a rugby player kind of way in the not-too-distant past, but his loose-fitting shirt didn’t disguise the fact that he was not attending the gym as often as he used to.
What really brought the reality of our age difference home to me, though, was his face. I realise now that he probably did not look nearly as bad as it seemed at the time. As a fresh-faced nineteen-year-old, though, the face looking down at me from under receding, gelled-back hair seemed saggy, tired, and, above all, old. And he had a goatee, no less! This man was extending a rather hairy hand towards me and grinning sheepishly.
Shit! This is Dave!
I wanted to run. Instead, I heard myself saying, “Yes, you must be Dave!”
“Do you want to go have a beer?” Dave asked, indicating the train station bar.
“Okay,” I said, or at least the person that had taken over my voice box and willpower did, and we walked over to the pub.
While he ordered us both a beer, part of me was still screaming at my body to turn and run back to the train, but as my self-control returned, I forced myself to stay and at least have a beer. I was starting to question if I really was bi — until now, all my fantasies involving men, and all the gay porn clips I watched, were with young, hairless twinks close to my age. In a way, the only distinctly masculine thing I imagined about my theoretical partners was a cock and lack of breasts. On the other hand, with his stocky frame, hairy hands, and facial hair, Dave was a whole lot more manly than I thought I was ready for.
After this beer, I can just go, I told myself, although I do not know who I was trying to fool.
When Dave returned with the drinks and sat down at the table, we attempted to make small talk but soon fell into an awkward silence.
“Robin, you’re quite nervous, aren’t you?” Dave said, finally. I nodded. “That’s okay. I’ve met with a few lads doing this for the first time, just like you. You don’t have to worry. We don’t have to go through with this if you’re really not sure. There’d be no hard feelings.”
I glanced around self-consciously. Of course, even if someone had overheard, it is unlikely they would guess what we were talking about unless they themselves were in the habit of meeting other people off the Internet for sex. He was giving me a way out. This was it. I would either go through with it or abandon the whole idea.
I took a deep breath and plunged in with my reply: “I’m sure.”
“Would it be easier if I take a more dominant role here, like a teacher?” he asked. I nodded, sensing that having some of my control taken from the situation was exactly what I wanted. “Okay, I can do that. I quite enjoy it, actually. We won’t bother with safewords or any of that — ‘no’ and ‘stop’ still mean ‘no’ and ‘stop’. I’ll just tell you what to do, and you do it.”
I swallowed and nodded again, and that, really, was the last time I could seriously have backed out that night.
I did continue to consider it at various moments over the next half hour, though — as we finished our beers, walked from the train station to the car park, got into his car, and drove out of the city centre... When we stopped at the first motorway service station, I suppose I could have jumped out and called a taxi, but I didn’t.
Instead, I went into the shop to get a six-pack of beer on his instructions. Just as I got to the counter, Dave came up behind me, dropped a tube clearly marked ‘personal lubricant’ on top along with the cash to pay for it all, and placed his hairy hand on my shoulder.
“We’ll be needing that tonight,” he said, winking at the wide-eyed blonde cashier. She looked my age if not younger, and I felt my cheeks burn when she caught my eye. I could tell she knew exactly what I would be doing with this older man, or at least her guess would not be far off. As I walked away with our purchases, feeling her eyes on the back of my head, I realised she hadn’t looked disgusted, and that gave me a little shot of confidence.
My nerves returned as soon as we pulled into the car park of the hotel he had booked, just as it started raining. It was a Travel Inn, a chain that you get all over the UK, next to another, larger, motorway services. I stood back while he checked in, listening to him say that his wife had booked a room for him, doing my best not to catch the eye of the pretty short-haired brunette behind the counter. I could feel myself going bright red again as these attempts failed, and I saw the receptionist giving me a knowing smile. I still don’t know how I feel about that smile to this day.
Leaving the counter, we walked down the corridor to the room (number 207 — I still remember), my heart threatening to come out of my throat the closer we got. Dave opened the door and we walked in. I knew there was no going back the moment the door closed.
“Well, this is nice, isn’t it!” Dave exclaimed, turning the light on and dropping his bag down. I did the same with mine and stood looking around at the standard, you-can-find-it-anywhere room — a queen-sized bed facing a long counter with a TV, a mirror beside it, two bedside tables, a cheap armchair and couch, and a clean, plain bathroom. I had stayed in rooms exactly the same on countless holidays with my family. This was the room in which I was finally going to be fucked. The butterflies in my stomach were going crazy.
“Would you like another beer first?” he asked, cracking one open himself.
“Yes, please,” I said, thinking maybe if I got at least a little bit tipsy, it would calm my nerves.
“Is that how you address your teacher?” he asked, withholding the beer.
Ah, I thought, back to school I go.
“Yes, please, sir?” I ventured.
“That’s better,” he said, giving me the can. I drank it a little too quickly, spilling some beer over my hands and almost choking on it. The room suddenly felt very hot. We were both still standing, so I sat down on the bed and removed my hooded top.
“Let’s watch some porn to relax before dinner,” Dave suggested, taking out a laptop and putting it on a chair, which he moved next to the bed.
“Okay,” I agreed, a little relieved at the possible distraction, and then added hastily, “Sir.”
I let him choose something and was pleasantly surprised that it was a relatively vanilla compilation of gay twink-on-twink clips, of the sort I might have chosen myself. He took off his jacket, sat down on the bed next to me and rested a hand on my lap, sending electric shivers through my body — whether out of shock, arousal or disgust, I wasn’t sure, but I didn’t move. The strong scent of his aftershave or cologne crept into my nostrils. I took several more chugs of beer and stared ahead, only half-seeing the images of a young blond guy sucking the cock of a cuter tanned guy that was playing on the screen. In almost no time, my beer was empty, and Dave seemed to notice immediately.