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I think we fell asleep for a while. I was certainly dozing when I felt him move under me. I was in a half awake, half asleep in a nowhere place with a montage of images drifting through my mind. I could see the other lads at the café, sitting with their ice-coffees, sipping through straws and watching me from under dark eyebrows. In dreams I could stop in front of them, be invisible and stare at their tightly packed jeans. I could take my time to admire their smooth, young faces and their tight fitting tee shirts that showed off their broad chests. In sleep I could imagine them also following me home as my lad had done. See them walk into the room where we now lay. I could hear them murmur in their strange language and understand what they were saying. That they approved and were jealous of the younger friend who had found me first, the one who had dared the risk, shadowed me home, dropped to his knees in front of me and then begged me to take him to my bed.

And I could be part of everything that was happening, be the centre of it as it happened in real time.

The other lads gather at my feet and start to stroke my legs. They comment on their strength, marvelling at how another guy feels. I know that they have all wanted to try this, have all had fantasies about sex with another man. And I know that, until now, they have not had the courage to try it. Not for all their bravado and their machismo. To talk among themselves of sex with their girlfriends is fine, even if the talk is only fantasy too, but to talk of sex with a man, to admit ...

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