extracted a beautifully clean large economy-size cut dick and went down on it. I could tell he was in seventh heaven.

The film came to an end, as did the music cassette I was playing in the other room. I muttered something about changing it and went away for a moment. When I got back, he had stripped and was between the sheets. An excellent use of initiative, suggesting that this was not the first time for him. I started to envisage a possible happy future for the two of us.

I went down on him again, tried a finger up the back passage, which he wasn’t wild about, but still and all, and then I hefted his legs in the air and stuck my tongue up his anal orifice. That too could not have been cleaner. Indeed it occurred to me later on that there were Muslims in the south of Yugo (don’t we know it since the Bosnian and Kosovan conflicts!), so it made sense that he should be both clinically clean and cut, not to mention versatile. Subsequent conversations bore this out.

I now returned to sucking his whang, and before very long he creamed a most welcome quantity down my gullet. I lay back to get my breath, and before you could say "ultradisestablishment-arianism" - or, indeed, even just "ultra" - he had gone down on me! Now it was my turn to be in seventh (or even seventieth) heaven.

To my considerable surprise he went all the way, and didn’t gag when I came in his mouth, though he did spit it out shortly afterwards, into a strategically-placed handkerchief, beside the bed. I couldn’t believe my luck. Not a sign of post coitus tristus.

In the interests of making things regular, I handled him with kid gloves after this, and made sure that no one amongst my friends or at work knew of our assignations. The following week we repeated the first session with knobs on, but sans the distraction of films.

Then I suggested a weekend in Provence, which delighted him, and nookies continued there in beds at the houses of the two sets of friends we stayed with. It was interesting to see how well house-trained he was, and the way everyone fell for his charm. When we stayed with some friends in Marseille he set out to find the monument to the Yugslav king assassinated in that city.

Early on in our friendship I talked to a Swiss chum who was having an arms-length (i.e. not living in) affair with a Yugo. He gave me a strong warning about any Yugo third party finding out what I was up to. I’d almost certainly be murdered in my bed, to expunge this offence against Yugo manhood.

After quite some time, I discovered that R. was having lodging problems, and suggested that he should move in with me. No rent to pay, central heating, constant hot water, a copious supply of booze and a bedroom of his own (so long as I was permitted to visit it when the mood took me). He leapt at the idea.

The old architect he was living with at the time was becoming a nuisance - whether sexually or just generally, I never found out. He moved in and was the perfect houseguest with very few infringements of the (very few) house rules.

One of these was "no screwing with women on the premises". He offended once, and I told him that if it happened again, he was