I am British and come from one of those traditional upper-class families. Dad was forty-two when I was born and my mother thirty-eight. Against all expectations, an incorrigible bachelor and a confirmed spinster had come together and actually conceived a child. Most people believed that dad was gay and that my mother was a lesbian. Remarkably, they were all proved wrong.
My parents were much older than those of my friends, but all my pals loved visiting us. Dad’s self-deprecating humour and my mother’s playful irascibility amused the hell out of them. The perfect example of this fad would best be illustrated by the following anecdote:
Due to my father’s never-ending flatulence, he was known to fart rather loudly at times. On an occasion, while my friends were visiting us, my dad let off one of his epic ‘rippers.’
“Oh, dear Jesus, Bill, why don’t you go outside and shake yourself,” my mother exclaimed in mock horror. Needless to say, my two pals almost pissed themselves at mom’s ‘outburst,’ and my dad’s impish embarrassment.
By the time I had finished college, my dad had retired. Formally, my father had been a formidable barrister and my mother a fervid socialite. My dad’s rapier-sharp wit and my mother’s equally quick-witted retorts were a great inspiration to me when I was growing up, and stood me in good stead when I finally graduated and became a columnist for several publications.
What I particularly loved about my work was that I was not office bound. Thank fuck for the internet!
By my mid-teens, my parents were aware that I was gay. This did not really trouble them at all, but my mother from time to time would feign disappointment at the fact that she would never have grandchildren. On one such occasion, as she bemoaned this matter, my father mischievously taunted her by saying, “How the hell would you be able to cope with grandchildren when you can’t even make a decent soufflé?” Naturally, all hell broke loose after that comment.
My father proved to be a great asset to my career. He was unbelievably well-read and remarkably intelligent. At university, he had studied Greek and Latin. Resultantly, whenever I had to write a piece that was less light-hearted and profound, my dad revelled in proofreading and offering me advice. His contributions were awesome and really enhanced my submissions.
Shortly after his retirement, my father decided to ‘civilize’ me by insisting that I join him on journeys away from home. An added reason for this coercion was that he contended that he simply had to escape my mom’s tyranny and needed a companion to do so. With pops paying all our expenses, I simply couldn’t refuse.
Our first excursion to Eastern Europe was hardly very exciting, but I have to admit, rather interesting. Although my dad always retired to his room shortly after dinner to do what he loved best, reading, sadly, the gay nightlife in these areas proved to be non-existent.
Upon our return to London, I had dinner with an old friend. This meeting proved to be unbelievably interesting after I told him about the trip with my father.
“Have you ever watched a television show called; ‘Travels with My Father?’” he asked me.
“No,” I honestly replied.
After a short snigger, he replied, “William, you must see it… Just watch it and you will appreciate why I suggested it.”
After dinner, when I got home I couldn’t wait to Google the show that my buddy had recommended. I instantly realized why he had suggested it as the show commenced. Although the characters were physically different from my dad and me, I felt like I was watching my life unfolding before me on television.
I will not bore you with specific details, other than to say the initial episode I watched was totally intriguing. Let me tell you why:
On a visit to the Swiss Alps, the protagonist and his dad acquire the services of a bearish tour with a mega moustache and beard. Upon their return to the magnificent lodge that they were staying in later that day, the tour guide joins the son in an outdoor hot tub. Not long after, the two of them enter a sauna. The scene as the two of them get out of the tub and enter the nearby sauna had me practically salivating.
At this point; I have to mention that although the son in the show was obviously gay, this was a travel program and not a gay extravaganza and, therefore, one did not see all the goings-on in the sauna.
What did, however, totally blow my mind, was a statement made by the son thereafter, when he reported that their guide was; ‘a most persuasive fellow.’
That night after I return home my mind went into sensual overdrive. I must have masturbated three times imagining the hot sauna action that they had experienced.
Needless to say, when my father suggested our next visit abroad, I was totally insistent on a visit to this resort.
“Ah… so you want a Germanic excursion,” my father contemplatively muttered in his inimitable manner.
Two weeks later all the booking had been made.
Regrettably, our tour guide was a surly individual with less charm than a rabid dog and when we were finally dropped off at the lodge, he couldn’t wait to fuck off after his duties had ended for the day. I was devastated that Wouter, Willie, or whatever the tour guide in the television show's name was, had not accompanied us.
After my father had retired to his room to read a great book that he was intrigued by, I soon sat moping in the hot tub that I had seen on television. As I sat, resigned to the bad hand that fate had dealt me I did, nonetheless, enjoy the warmth of the water and the stimulating bubbles that caressed my body.
As if by magic a vision suddenly befell my eyes, when a very large masculine form suddenly exited the building and headed in my direction. The term; tall, dark, and handsome had miraculously materialized as the virile apparition next stood looking at me, before asking if he could join me in the tub. How I didn’t piss myself, I will never know.
I, naturally, got a very good look at him as he had headed in my direction with a large pendulum flopping between his legs. Above all, his nutsack would’ve sent hysterical high-pitched chipping noises through an entire chipmunk colony, as they were preparing their stash for winter.
As we sat enjoying the hot tub and swapping histories, I thought about the television program I had watched. Although Máté, who was Hungarian, was infinitely sexier than the tour guide in that show, I still hankered after the ‘persuasive’ encounter that the character in the television show had enjoyed. It simply did not dawn on me that Máté could possibly be gay or bisexual. He was, after all, a butch water polo player who had represented his country at the highest level.
Several minutes later, however, my misgivings were somewhat negated when I felt his big toe push up against mine. I did not initially get too excited, given our close proximity, but when his big toe moved over my toe and commenced rubbing it, I had a Eureka moment and knew that my Alpine aspiration was about to come true. Máté’s horny expression also left me in no doubt about what would shortly follow.