I'll admit on paper Nigel wouldn't have been my ideal partner. He wasn't podgy but he did have an arse the size of a small moon. He wasn't stupid but he didn't win any awards for linear thinking. He wasn't conventionally handsome but you'd not lose points by standing beside him.


What he was was a bit of a loner. And that's what predators look out for: those little lambs at the periphery of the flock that look easy pickings.


Not that I classified myself as a predator by any means. I was just another boy driven by rapacious hormones and an unrelenting lust to see my fellow peers' cocks. And Nigel was one of the few friends I had that I kept finding myself alone with, much to the suspicion of his mother.


Mind you, on reflection I think if I'd admitted I preferred tea to coffee she might have reported me to the police. She was quite wrong of course. Never crossed my mind to hurt little Nigel. Quite the contrary - I wanted to see him writhing in ecstacy at my feet.


I say little but he was the same age as me and probably a bit taller. He had one of those naturally tanned skins that make the rest of us northeners looks positively monochrome.


By this stage I had already booked in M for a weekly wanking session so I can't claim I was sexually frustrated. More a case of wanting to branch out and experience more variety.


One day out of nowhere he produced this electric typewriter. He was, he announced, going to write 'The Ten Rules of Sex'.


I really can't remember what we came up with only we got as far as his "You can do it by yourself", and the idea of actually typing anything went out of the window.


It seemed an excellent opening to ask him about his masturbatory habits.


At any rate our conversations touched on girls (he fancied a neighbour because she had big boobs), his hot ginger **** (whom he admitted used to suck his cock in the bath when they were both younger) and his wanking habits. He opened his bedroom window and indicated some stains on the slabs below. This was where he dumped his cum nightly. Saved on tissues I guess.


We were both tenting badly but surprisingly he was the first to loosen the top of his trousers and pull his cock out.


It was long, very hard, and of average thickness. He pointed out a few yellow flakes at the wrinkled tip of his foreskin. This, he said, was dried spunk from his last wank.


I suggested we headed to the bathroom. It was further from the main door than his bedroom and if someone suddenly came home one of us could lock the door. He wasn't sure but complied, his erection bobbing before him as he shuffled along holding his trousers up.


I remember asking him if I could touch it, then trying to pull his skin back. It didn't move.


It's sore if I do that, he said, and demonstrated the tight ring just above the head. He could only pull it back a few millimeters. The way the skin reddened at the tip fascinated me.


Did his **** have a normal cock? I asked, then realised with horror just what I had said. No one likes to be told their cock is abnormal, especially not someone of our age.


He knocked my hand away and ordered me to take my own cock out. I happily obliged, given I'd been dying for a wank for the last hour.


This is how I do it, he said, clasping his fists around his shaft and jiggling them up and down above his tight round ball sack.


I reciprocated by rubbing my foreskin up and down. The site of my purple helmet put him off a bit.


Whats all that white stuff?


I looked down. I'd been so aroused I'd been oozing precum but my active wanking had frothed it up into a lather. I guessed he'd never seen precum before and I panicked trying to think of an answer that didn't sound weird.


Shaving foam. I rubbed some in last night.


There. Not weird at all. I wasn't making the kind of impression I was expecting. Marginally more sensible than accidently going down on M but still far from my finest moment.


He gave me an odd look, then increased his fisting motion, lips contorting into a rosebud as he snorted: Here it cums!


A jet of piss emerged and struck the open toilet back, spraying everywhere in a cascade of gold.


Stupid, stupid fucker. How could any guy post-puberty confuse emptying their bladder with emptying their testicles? The whole thing beggared belief. I mean I was hardly an expect but I still new how to give myself (and anyone willing) an orgasm.


It rather put a damper on things. Not the least trying to swab up his piss from around the toilet and hide the smell with air freshener.


Strike one