H is for ... Hunky, Haveable Hets

I think I’ve never really been turned on by out-and-out gays. There’d be times when I’d make do with them, occasionally for extended periods, but what I always really wanted, and got more often than you might believe, was hunky, haveable hets, preferably married. Perverse? Perhaps. But it’s been fun.

There was a notable period in my life, around my 23rd birthday, which places it about 1956. I was sharing a flat in Liverpool. The flat was a longish walk from the gay bars in town, so when we were flush, or unusually thirsty, my flatmate and I would phone for a taxi. And often, as we walked down the steps of the house, the black cab driver (that’s the cab that was black, not necessarily the driver) would say: "Magic Clock, boys?” The then best known gay bar in Liverpool. He’d spotted us as gays.

But my return trip was usually on foot, unless it was raining, because, with hardly a diversion from my route, there was a whole slew of cottages to visit. In good weather, I would start in the little one in the alleyway alongside the Walker Art Gallery. Both cottage and alleyway have now gone, alas, though the gallery is still there. The alley led to large blocks of tenement flats (also now gone), and some of the denizens thereof would drop in for a quick blow job from a queer on the way home. The girl friend (in those Pill-less times) had refused to put out, so a quick blow was the best solution.

One such denizen (who I suppose would be better placed in Chapter C) was a lad called Steve, who nearly always seemed to be there when I was. He could hold his erection, without erupting, for a very long time, so blowing him was quite an event. A tongue at the back did not go unappreciated, especially when someone else was tonguing at the front.

On one famous occasion I arrived to find Steve already being blown, and I rapidly realised that the blower was my friend P. He rarely budged from home without a rolled umbrella on his arm, even when it wasn’t raining. But - under these circumstances - this was a major handicap. Spotting that I was the new arrival, he calmly hung it on my arm and proceeded with the task in hand (or rather mouth), but rather less encumbered. To be fair, he did let me have a go at Steve when fatigue set in. And - fifty-off years on - we still joked about that umbrella.

But much more often my pick-ups would be blokes, like me, in their 20s, but unlike me, they usually had pretty strong Scouse accents. Almost invariably they were married, and wanting sex because the wife "had the rag on" or was pregnant.

The other unexpected feature of these men was that they more often than not wanted to be screwed up the ass, rather than to fuck me. Which, in that phase of my life, suited me perfectly. On more than one occasion, out of pure curiosity, I asked why it was that they wanted it up the back passage. The usual answer was that that was the one thing the wife couldn’t do for them, and they’d found that they enjoyed it.

Sometimes they volunteered the additional information that they’d much rather be blown by a man, because a woman, having no cock, could not understand the subtleties of using her tongue