PART EIGHT OF
THE JOURNAL OF JAMES CURTIS
BY MICHAEL J. BAYLY
THE JOURNAL OF JAMES CURTIS
BY MICHAEL J. BAYLY
(To start at the beginning of this series, click here)
Do others have vivid memories of their first shared sexual experience? I would guess so. I certainly do. It didn’t occur, however, when I’m sure most people – or at least most guys – get to experience it: at some point during their horny teenage years. No, I was somewhat of a late bloomer. In my case, it occurred when I was twenty-two and in my final year of college.
I swam then, pretty much on a daily basis. I was lean, toned, and in much better shape than I am today - almost twelve years later. Back then I preferred swimming in the mornings before class – and after early morning Mass.
In a way, my time in the pool was an extension of my time at Mass, for as I cut through the water like a fish I would talk to God - sharing with Him whatever it was that was on my mind. This sharing, coupled no doubt with the physical exertion of swimming, always left me feeling deeply renewed. I’d usually swim 60 lengths of the pool in a little over 40 minutes. Like I said, I was much fitter in those days.
The pool's morning shift ended at 8:00 a.m. and I’d usually be the last through the door to the men's changing room before it was locked behind me. I’d often hear the turn of the heavy lock as I stood naked under the steaming hot water in the communal shower area.
One morning I noticed that another came after me through the pool door. He was an older guy – probably in his late fifties, maybe early-mid sixties. He was short, kinda stout, but muscular. I recall thinking to myself that for his age, he was in pretty good shape. He slipped out of his speedos and stood under the shower nozzle next to mine. That's weird, I thought. After all, there were eight showers in total, and, given the chance, guys would always leave one or two spaces between themselves and another naked man.
After a minute or two I looked over and observed the older guy staring at me – or rather, at my cock. He was slowly rubbing his own penis to the point where it was semi-erect. Our eyes met, and he smiled.
My first thought was to turn off the water, grab my towel, and bolt. Of course, by this time, I’d known for years that I was gay. I also knew that for some gay guys, encounters like this were commonplace; indeed, they were actively sought after. But I’d always wanted my first time with another to be something different, something special. And yet here I was, almost twenty-three and still a virgin. Suddenly the room began to spin from the realization that I wasn’t going to walk away from this; that I didn’t want to walk away.
So hard-hitting was this awareness that I had to steady myself by extending a hand to the wall in front of me. As I turned to look at my shower room companion, I lowered my other hand and began stroking my already hardening cock. We knew we were alone as we had heard the locking of the door leading to the pool. The other entrance to the locker room was quite a ways away, around a corner. It had a door that made a loud whooshing sound whenever it was opened. At this time of the morning, however, with the pool now closed until midday, no one would be entering the locker room, and we both knew it.
In an instant we were kissing and caressing one another under the streaming water. He got down on his knees and hungrily began to lick and devour me. I urged him on, somewhat startled by the commanding certainty in my voice and the natural ease at which my body responded in rhythmic thrusts to his touch. With my body’s first convulsions toward climax, he rose, gripped me firmly, and spun me around toward the shower wall. Reaching from behind, he vigorously jacked me off. When it was over, I fell back into the firmness of his warm wet body – utterly spent. I sighed at the soothing sound and touch of the hot water streaming over our entwined bodies. In time I felt his chest gently vibrate as he chuckled in a quiet and content way. He leaned forward and whispered in my ear, “Good morning.”
And then he was gone. I watched as he wrapped his towel around his waist and walked to the locker area. Standing under the water, I felt drained – quite literally – by what I now considered to have been a rather desperate encounter for both of us. Eventually, I reached up, adjusted the shower nozzle, and washed down the tiled wall in front of me. I soon joined my companion in the locker area, a towel wrapped around me and a sheepish expression on my young face. I felt I had let him down. I mean, I hadn’t reciprocated. I hadn’t satisfied him. Should I attempt something now?
He must have sensed what I was thinking. “Hey, thanks so much, friend,” he said cheerily. “That’s just what I needed.” He smiled and winked at me. “I hope it was as good for you as it was for me.” He began removing articles of clothing from his locker. “Oh, and by the way, you have a great body.”
“Thanks,” I finally managed to say.
“You’re welcome. ”
He fell silent. Now it was his turn to look sheepish. “You’ve made an old man very happy,” he said with a distinct hint of weariness in his voice.
He dressed quickly and in silence. Then, as he gathered up the last of his things, he knocked his bag over. I watched as a number of items tumbled across the floor – including what was unmistakably a Roman collar. My gasp was clearly audible.
“Forgive my clumsiness,” he said softly as he gathered up his things.
We stood facing one another in awkward silence. “I’m the chaplain at St. Helen’s,” he said in an almost obligatory way. “It’s part of the consortium.”
I nodded. “Yes, I know. My older sister went there.”
He smiled. “Good. Well, I find there’s less chlorine in the pool here, and so . . . er . . . I actually usually swim in the evenings.”
He paused and looked me in the eyes. “You really are very beautiful,” he said. “I hope you don’t think . . .” His voice trailed off as his eyes revealed two deepening pools of profound longing. I felt a sudden surge of sorrow for him, mixed with a certain empathy.
“No,” I said, loosening the towel slowly from around my waist and letting it slip to the floor. “I don’t think that at all.”
I let his sad, hungry eyes feast on my body.
He stepped forward and we kissed gently, his hands moving slowly, reverently, over my naked skin.
“Thank you,” he whispered.
I’m not sure how long I stood there alone and naked in that locker room. It was probably only a moment or two, but it felt like years. I had just shared my first sexual experience with another. And I had looked into the face of intense loneliness and longing, and responded, I believed, in love and generosity. My first time had been special after all.
See also the previous installments of The Journal of James Curtis:
• Part One: A “Bells and Smells” Kind of Guy
• Part Two: A Quiet Visit and an Exhausting Conversation
• Part Three: A Journey Begins
• Part Four: Carlos
• Part Five: My Lunch with a “Medicine Bearer”
• Part Six: Father Brandon
• Part Seven: The Note