How does a straight man like me turn gay for one night? You have to blame my friend Mike.

My gay friend. We’ve gotten so close now, university being just the start of our platonic friendship, that he can take my jibes, and I can take his. He can say, quite sincerely, that he fancies the arse off me, and I can kick his rear and call him a pervy bum-bandit. We laugh, and drink beer, and, on some occasions, cry. His, the pain of the sensitive gay, forever being cheated and dumped by his boyfriends; mine, the pain of a fiery rollercoaster marriage, the sting of a female tongue.

His gay life is so alien to me, where sex is as easy and quick as drinking a beer, where willing partners are plentiful, and a man will think nothing bringing a stranger back for a shag in full view of his boyfriend. It was shocking, strange, but strangely alluring.

It was after too many beers, one evening after work, that I first hinted at my grim curiosity. “I mean, what goes on? How quickly can you pull a guy? It took me seven weeks to pull Julia, for fuck’s sake”.

He snapped his fingers. “That quick”.

He went on. “In the right place, I could be eating a man’s cock about one minute after saying hi.”

“Bloody hell!”

But even I, straight as a ruler, admitted that he was a fine specimen, tall, well-muscled, an easy confidence, blue eyes that burned and a figure that was surely a magnet for those that liked men.

“But, where?”

“What we call the baths", he explained. "A kind of gay sex club. A sauna, men-only, but really a prime hunting ground for those that want to bypass the chit-chat. I can’t say I go there, I’m more choosy these days. You get all sorts there. And did you ever wonder how diseases spread so fast?”

My skin crawled, and I felt glad to be straight. The wedding ring, often so heavy, felt like a life-belt right now. I was glad to have Julia. I ordered more beers.

Three hours later, we left the bar: drunken, bitter, almost violent. We were walking across the dark street, about to part ways.

“You’re just too scared to pull women, aren’t you? Frightened of Wifey and don’t want to be a bad boy?”

I was getting angry now. That was too close to the mark.

“Fuck off. It’s called commitment.”

“You mean prison. How many other girls do you want to shag? And CAN’T?”

Now I exploded. “You’re just a bunch of deviant empty overgrown teenagers with nothing in life but your precious dicks!”

He held me against the wall, pressing against me, rage shaking him. His face was an inch from mine, a wild aggressive leer in his eyes. Bizarrely, I could feel his dick pressing hard through his trousers. Mike seemed to have grown a foot taller. No longer the precious, groomed boy that my mother liked so much; now a towering muscled gym-fit wall of animal rage.

“You may think we’re a bunch of mincing nancies but most of us have more courage than you’ll ever have. We can’t hide behind any of your false fucking pretences. You know what …”

He paused to catch his breath, before roaring his favourite punchline.

“ … You’re just fucking scared of