I had the hots for my Australian cousin John from the first time I ever met him. I didn't even know he existed until I was seventeen. A family feud because of my grandfather's religious beliefs - or disbeliefs (he was a Communist atheist) - had alienated John's father, my uncle, who had married a Catholic girl and taken lessons, from the family.

I met John in at university. We hit it off right away. It seemed he knew who I was, but I didn't realize we might be related, because all his family, including my uncle, went by his mother's surname. The name John Barton meant nothing to me, rang no bells, but John recognized the family surname and guessed that I might be kin, and went home and asked his mother whether he had a cousin named Terry Waites.

His mother still kept occasional touch with mine, and phoned mom to ask whether I was in fact John's cousin. That's when I came to learn that John and I were cousins.

As I said, I had the hots for him from day one. He was all I wished I could be - tall, dark, and handsome. Not only that, he had grown up in the wealthy suburbs surrounding the university, had attended private school, and had made all the right contacts in life. Two years my senior, he was suave and sophisticated.

I, on the other hand, was a crude country bumpkin. I idolized young men like my cousin John. I also lusted for them, especially John himself.

But that was not to be. He was obviously straight, dating a series of very attractive, very smart, very intelligent women.

After university, we went our ways. I went off to Canada; he went off to England. We lost touch.

Five years later, when John's mom heard that I was heading for London, she gave my mom his telephone number. Not long after arriving, and having found a cheap hotel in Earl's Court, I gave John a call.

He was not surprised to hear from me, as his mother had told him I was heading his way. He did seem genuinely pleased to hear from me, however.

"Can't wait to see you again, mate," he told me on the phone. "I'm actually living out near Windsor these days, but I was thinking of coming in to the city tonight to take in a double bill of movies at a cinema near where you're staying. You want to join me?"

"That sounds great," I told him. I didn't even ask what the movies were.

"What's the name of the hotel again?" he asked.

"The Wellington," I told him. "It's right on Earl's Court Road, close to the tube station."

"OK," he told me. "I'll pick you up at 6:45. The first movie starts at 7:00."

"I'll be waiting in the hotel lobby," I told him.

So at six-thirty, I was waiting there for him when he loped in, still as tall and dark and handsome as I remembered him.

He recognized me also, and lunged toward me, embracing me in a bear hug.

"Great to see you, old man," he cried. The "old man" was a bit of his British affectation. We were both in our early twenties. As I found later, another was his Sherlock-Holmes-type pipe which he used to chew on, and to wave rather like a baton to make a point. I rarely saw him actually smoke the thing.

"My lady didn't want to come in tonight, so there's just the two of us. Actually, we can walk from here. The theatre's just down the street. I'm parked on the side street."

As we walked to the theatre, he told me he was now working as the artistic director of a kid's show for the BBC by day, and by night acting for the occasional stage play. He was also teaching piano in private music lessons to the children of wealthy families.

"Make more from that than the other two jobs combined," he said.

The reason he lived way out at Windsor was that one of his music clients owned an estate out there. He had hired John and his lady friend Moira as live-in caretakers to keep an eye on the manor house. John and Moira got a generous stipend for this as well as free rent and utilities and use of a large cottage on the grounds.

We reached the theatre in no time. I was very surprised to see the bill of movies listed in the lobby of the cinema. They were two predominantly gay-themed films, neither of which I had seen, but both of which I had read about. They were "Fortune and Men's Eyes" about homosexual rape and love in prison, and "The Boys in the Band" about a gay birthday party. It struck me that this was a rather odd choice for a straight man, but I said nothing.

 

"I've been waiting to see both of these movies," John told me, "and here they are, both on the same bill tonight."

The first movie was "Fortune" and it was terribly depressing. We talked briefly about it in the lobby during intermission, but changing the subject, John said,

"I had a nice idea during the movie. Unless you have other plans, why don't you come and stay with us? There's a spare bedroom in the cottage. No charge. I know it's quite a ways out of the city, but you can use my Lambretta motor-scooter to get to the railway station, and then it's only about a 20 minute ride in. I have an old MG I use for going in to the BBC each day."

Always eager to save a few dollars, and happy to be with my hot cousin again, I readily agreed.

After the second feature, "The Boys in the Band," which was bitchy, but amusing, we walked back to the hotel. I stuffed my sparse belongings into my large backpack and checked out of the hotel. They only charged me for two nights, and returned the other five night's rent to me.

When John led me to the side-street where his transportation was parked, it was to the MG he had mentioned. It was an older model - about 1955, I'd guess, but it was in wonderful shape. He told me it was his "baby." I had to nurse my backpack on my lap, for John had other gear in the small "boot."

It was a pleasant drive on a clear summer's night, especially when we got out into the wooded areas around Windsor.

As he parked his baby outside the cottage, I was startled to hear, not too far away, the unmistakable roar of a lion.

"Don't be alarmed," John warned me. "You're quite safe. There's an African safari park just down the road a bit. You might also hear the elephants, too."

He led me inside and introduced me to Moira, She was nice enough, but seemed a bit put out that John had invited me without consulting with her first. She was one of those who consider herself a "modern" woman, and needed to be included in all decisions. She made a meager living as a feminist writer for some of the avant garde and arty magazines on the London scene. In times of need, she could always fall back on her wealthy family. The "modern" woman faded into the background when her comfort was at stake. But, as I said, she was nice enough.

I was staying for three weeks, and after a couple of days, had set up a routine where I would drive John's Lambretta to the station, park, take the train into the city, do my sightseeing, and take the train back to the Lambretta.

On the third evening, John said to me, "How would you like to meet me in the city for lunch tomorrow, Terry?

He explained a little more. "Gerald is a writer friend of mine. I knew him first in Australia. He is sailing back to Oz on Friday, and invited me to a farewell lunch. I mentioned you, and he said to bring you along."

"Sounds good to me," I said.

"Great," he said. "How about you meet me at Nelson's Column in Trafalgar Square at 11:30 tomorrow?"

So it was, John collected me at the appointed place, led me to his MG, and we drove to the exclusive Mayfair area. We had to circle around a bit to find parking, which we eventually did, right close to the Playboy Club, recently opened in London.

But it was not the Playboy Club we were going to, We were headed for the Club Philadelphia, quite close by. When we found it, it was a stately 4-storey older brick and limestone building, fronting right onto the street, with nothing to distinguish it from other buildings in the area, other than the brass sign on the wall by the front entrance reading 'Club Philadelphia.' The sign gave no idea of what to expect on the inside.

On entering, there was nothing much out of the ordinary, except that John and I were greeted near the door by a tuxedoed Maitre d' — tuxedoed, that is, except for his pants, underwear and shoes and socks. He was stark naked below the waist! He approached us as if this were just a daily routine for him - as I suppose it really was - just another work day sans pants.

I didn't quite know where to look - but I did steal some quick glances at his impressive tool.

John seemed totally unconcerned.

John informed him that we were lunch guests of Gerald Glasgow.

"Ah, yes," the maitre d' replied, "Mister Glasgow said he was expecting you. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Peter, your Maitre d'. There is however, one small problem - our dress code insists you must wear coats in the dining room. However, that is not a problem. If you will just step over here."

"Have you been here before?" I whispered to John.

"No," he whispered back, "but Gerald warned me. It's a gay men's club. Gerald is gay. I wanted to surprise you."

Peter, who on closer inspection seemed to be only a little older than ourselves, led us to a small cloak-room beside the entrance, his impressive cock waving before him. There he shuffled through a rack of coats and handed us each a sports-coat.

"These should fit you, sirs. If you would be so good as to return them as you leave. You will find the dining room straight up the stairs and on your left."

We opened the double doors into the dining room and were stunned by the sight. It was a lavish room, full of mostly older male diners.

Another youthful, half-naked waiter approached us, apparently the doorman for the dining-room.

"I am Johnson, sirs. Can I help you, sirs," he asked, a little disdainfully, I thought, because were were obviously not among his rich, older clientele.

John asked for Gerald Glasgow's table, and we were led to a table by the back wall. Rich drapes hung down the back wall at intervals, breaking up the bare expanse, as the windows did at the front of the room and the side of the room facing the streets below.

As we approached his table, a plump, ruddy-faced, goateed man, who I took to be Gerald Glasgow, rose to greet us. The man with him, a younger, unsmiling, rather European-looking man, also goateed, remained seated.

"Ah, John," Glasgow cried, reaching out a hand to shake John's. "So glad you could make it. And you must be cousin Terry, also from Oz," he added, turning to me. He stuck out his hand and I shook it. "Please do sit down," he said, indicating the two empty places at the table set for four.

"And this is my secretary, Orlando," he said, gesturing toward the other man. "Terry. Orlando. Of course, you and Orlando have met before, John?"

"Yes, we have," said John, almost pushing the reminder aside, as if it were something he didn't want talked about at this time. I wondered about that.

We seated ourselves, and the lunch proceeded nicely from then on.

Another half-naked waiter soon approached us. He was already carrying a drink tray. He was also toting an amazing hard-on. It was pointing skyward.

"I am Roger, your waiter for today. Can I bring you something from the bar while you peruse the lunch menu?"

We each ordered drinks. I settled for vodka and orange, while John and our hosts drank scotch.

"II would have liked to have ordered one of him," said John, surprising me. It was the first indication I ever had that he was anything but straight, other than the choice of movies a few nights before.

Gerald informed us, "They have a fluffer in the kitchen, you know!"

"Fluffer?" I asked, feeling a little stupid.

"Yes, a fluffer, " he said. "You know, a guy who tickles their goodies with a feather duster to make them good and hard for display purposes - and it is only display purposes. This is not a brothel. All the waiters are just that - waiters. Unfortunately," he added.

"Hmmph," snorted Orlando. "Am I not enough for you?" he asked.

"Of course you are, my dear," Gerald said, putting his heavily-ringed hand consolingly over his secretary's equally-bejewelled hand. "But Daddy does still like to look."

It was obvious that Orlando was more than just a secretary. In fact, I doubted that the surly Italian, or whatever he was, could even type.

We all ordered lunch and Roger padded away to the kitchens.

"Did you notice their names?" asked Gerald, chuckling.

"Hmm, Peter, Johnson, Roger," I mused. Then I got it. "They're all pet names for penises," I said. "Are they all like that?"

"They certainly are," Gerald informed us. "They've all got pseudonyms like that: Willy, John-Thomas, Godfrey, Thompson, and so on.

Roger returned with our lunches.

To make conversation, I asked Gerald, "John tells me you are a writer. Have you written anything I might have read?"

"I doubt it," he replied. "My most famous book was banned in Australia — and Canada, I believe."

"Oh? What was it called?" I asked.

"Well, my original title for it was 'Cocksuckers' but the publishers rejected that. I changed it to 'I Guess I'll Burn in Hell'. It gets a lot of unsuspecting readers who think its going to be some sort of supernatural horror story. Instead, it's a real life horror story - it's about the gay underworld in Perth."

Now I knew where I had heard his name. I had bought a copy of the paperback of 'I Guess I'll Burn in Hell' in Berlin a couple of months before. The gay sex scenes were very explicit. I had jerked off to them many times.

"I've read it," I told him. "I loved it! And it made me very horny!" I blurted out without thinking.

"Yeah, it made me horny, too," agreed John, looking at me a little differently.

"Well, that's what it was supposed to do," grinned Gerald, and his secretary smirked.

It was at that time that Peter, the young Maitre d' came to our table, and bent and whispered in Gerald's ear. Gerald blanched a little. Then, when Peter had left, said, "You'll have to excuse Orlando and I. Something has come up." He nodded at his secretary. They both stood and left us, just like that.

Peter, standing near the door, looked at us and shook his head. He looked as if he were trying to decide something. He spoke briefly to one of the other waiters, who left the room, heading downstairs.

Peter approached us.

"We've been tipped off there is about to be a police raid," he informed us, "and Mister Glasgow, who might have been able to pull a few strings, seems to have deserted you. It strikes me, that unlike most of the gentlemen here, you are unlikely to have strings you can pull yourselves. If you will follow me, I will get you out of here."

We stood and followed him. right toward the back wall. He pulled aside one of the hanging drapes at the back wall, to reveal a passage beyond. He motioned us to enter. We followed.

A little way down the passage, he pressed a concealed button on the wall, and a large bookshelf at the end of the passageway swung back to reveal a stairway leading down. He struck a pose much like he had done when he welcomed us to the club.

"Welcome to our air-raid shelter," Peter announced. "It works well for other raids as well."

From beyond the drapes behind us, we heard police whistles blow, and raised voices presumably of police detectives and the indignant responses of diners.

"Ah, right on time," observed Peter. "Our informant is always very reliable, and he does it quite free of charge. He is homosexual himself, and hates to see his fellow policemen harassing us in these days when it is all quite legal."

The secret doorway had closed behind us, and Peter was leading us downstairs.

"The previous owner had the basement reinforced and converted into an air-raid shelter just before World War Two," he told us. "He built the hidden passage and the secret doorway in case the Nazis invaded Britain. These days this area serves as housing for those of us staff who choose to live in. You will actually be 'hiding out' in my bedroom - if that's alright with you."

"That sounds perfect," said John, and I noticed him very obviously ogle Peter's peter.

Peter ushered us into his bedroom, which was plainly but nicely decorated with a large bed, desk a couple of armchairs and lamps, a writing desk and a couple of lamps. A bathroom could be seen though an open door.

"Would the sirs feel more comfortable if I put some pants on?" asked Peter.

"To hell with that," laughed John. "Take more off if you want. We'll join you, if you like."

This was not the John I knew in university. I liked this John even more.

"Yes, I think I'd like that," agreed Peter. "It might give us something to do while we wait for the police to leave." He shed his jacket, bow tie, and studded white shirt, abandoning them to the floor, to become fully naked.

John was tearing off his clothes, too, so I followed suit. Soon there were shed clothes everywhere, and three totally naked men.

John flung himself across Peter's bed. "No more 'sirs"," he told Peter. "I'm John. This is my cousin Terry."

"Pleased to meet you both," Peter replied. I was kneeling on the bed close to John's head. I felt his mouth close over my penis, which immediately began to grow hard. Peter was kneeling straddling John, dry-humping him but not really trying to fuck him yet, just enjoying the rubbing. I leaned toward Peter and we kissed open mouth, gobbling and slurping at each other, while John gobbled and slurped at my dick.

When I got time to draw breath, I asked Peter, "What will happen to the men upstairs?"

"If they have any pull at all - and most of them are quite influential - nothing. If they are not so important, they might be taken to the police station for 'questioning'. If they have any sort of record, their names might be released to the tabloids. At worst, they might get their pictures in the Sun or the News of the World."

"That's bloody awful," breathed John from the area of my crotch.

"It was much worse in the old days," Peter told us. "Before the laws changed. Then men would be charged with homosexual activities and brought before the courts, maybe even sent to prison. The waiters usually just got petty fines for lewd behavior. The club got major fines for all sorts of infractions, but they never shut it down. Too many influential patrons. These days its just petty harassment."

Peter was still dry-humping John's butt, but by now I had moved down to Peter's dick and was sucking that marvellous implement.

John rolled over onto his back, and Peter immediately bent over him head to toe and a hot sixty-nine.

John lifted his legs, and cried "Fuck me, Terry," It was awkward wriggling in there, as his legs kept falling forward, until Peter used his forearms to pin them back, still sucking on John's cock. Wetting my cock and John's hole with ample saliva, I wriggled forward until my cockhead was against John's exposed bum-hole. A little push was all it took. My cock slipped inside my cousin's tight asshole, something I had wanted for five years and more.

"Oh, yes," he cried, letting go of Peter's cock for a moment. "I've wanted you to fuck me ever since we met."

All those years we'd wasted!

But what about all those smashing girlfriends? I wondered.

"I always was bisexual," he told us. "But these days I like men more. Moira knows. She and I don't even sleep together any more. We even have separate bedrooms. It's just convenient for us to live together."

"Umf!" he grunted as I pushed into him and he resumed chomping on Peter's dick. Peter, meantime, was having fun chomping on John's.

By now I hard started a pumping motion on his ass, but I couldn't get more than my plum-head and a little of the shaft into him. My knee joints were starting to ache, also.

"Let's try a different position," I suggested.

"And let's strip off my bed before my coverlet gets covered in spunk and stuff," suggested Peter.

We did as Peter suggested, and John once more lay on his back across the bed. Peter knelt on the floor between John's legs and resumed sucking on his cock. John looked at me, opened his mouth, and indicated he wanted my prick in it. I was happy to oblige, and kneeled on the bed and lowered my groin to his waiting mouth. He sucked hungrily, like a piglet at the teat.

But I guess he wanted a little more action with me. "Let's sixty-nine," he suggested. Peter got out of the way so that I could straddle John, putting my face in his crotch, and at the same time dangling my goods over his waiting mouth. John wasted no time in reaching up to cover my knob with his mouth and begin sucking. I took his cock into my own, enjoying the gelatinous taste and texture of man-cock. My own butt was left protruding over the edge of the bed.

Peter, left out, had moved round the bed, and was now behind me. I heard him spitting on his fingers, and then they were probing at my exposed man-hole.

I loved the feel of his forefinger sliding in and out of me while my dick was being sucked.

"May I fuck you?" Peter asked.

"Oh, yes!" I replied enthusiastically. "Please do!"

He was quick to accept my invitation. Although his cock was large and thick, I wanted it so bad, I didn't mind that it hurt quite a bit as he entered me. Peter was considerate enough to do it bit by bit, pausing to allow me to become used to the massive intrusion before pushing deeper into me.

When Peter was fully inside me, I felt a sense of completion - sucking cock and having my cock sucked while a large dick was rhythmically fucking my ass. But it seemed John, who to just minutes ago I had thought was straight, was calling the shots.

"Sit on my dick," he ordered. "I want to fuck you for a bit."

Peter pulled out of me with an audible 'pop,' allowing me to move. John swivelled round and propped himself up against the bed-head. He held his hard prick up ready for me to impale myself on it. I squatted over him and lowered myself down. My hole was already distended from Peter fucking me moments before. John's smaller - but still quite adequate- dick slipped inside me easily.

Peter moved round the bed once more and waved his dick in front of my face. I took that cock, which had so recently been up my arse, into my mouth and sucked on it as best I could while I rocked back and forth on John's pole.

While I sucked on his cock, Peter was getting a good look at my meat bouncing round in my crotch as I round up and down on John's pole. It must have made him hungry for some protein, because he withdrew his rod from my mouth and bent to my not-so-privates. He took my knob into his mouth and began to suck greedily. It was wonderful being pleasured both before and aft.

But it was me who made the next demands. This new position was just as hard on the joints as had been the earlier one, while I was squatting fucking John. I loved the feel of his cock grinding against the walls of my colon, but I hated the cramping that was taking place in my knees.

Eventually I said, "Why don't you let Peter ride you for a bit? My legs are killing me."

So Peter and I changed places, and he squatted over John's waiting rod and impaled himself on it. He leaned back onto John so he could get as much of John's cock into him as possible. This left his large cock standing straight up in the air. I couldn't resist.

I bent over Peter's cock while he and John fucked, and I sucked on the knob of it. It was wet with precum, and I licked at it greedily.

But for Peter, too, this position became wearisome. He pushed my head aside, and reaching his uppermost arm back and around John's shoulders, rolled sideways, dragging John with him. The two of them now lay on their sides on the bed, John's cock still buried in Peter's ass. It gave John much more freedom to move his hips and to fuck Peter, and he started to pound at Peter's asshole.

Peter lifted his upper leg to give John better access. At the same time, that gave me better access to Peter's stiff dick and I resumed sucking it.

"I'm gonna come soon," John informed us. "Can I cum inside you?" he asked Peter.

"By all means," Peter agreed. John redoubled his pounding of Peter's back door, and in a couple of minutes we knew that he had reached climax by his moans of pleasure and his straining to bury himself as deep as possible into Peter's ass.

Finished, John rolled onto his back once more. He may have been finished, but he wasn't done yet.

"Now I want you both to fuck me," he asked. "Standing up! I'll lay here like this, and you guys can stand up and fuck me."

So we did it that way. Peter went first, but he didn't cum in John. He pumped and pounded at John's ass, hanging over the edge of the bed, for quite some time. I was kneeling on the bed, holding John to stop him from sliding off the edge.

When Peter had had quite enough, he pulled out and signalled me to take his place. By now my balls were almost bursting with pent-up cum, and so excited by getting to fulfill a teenage dream - fucking my cousin - that it only took a few minutes of slipping in and out of John's willing asshole before I felt my juices rising up inside me, then bursting forth, flooding into John's insides.

I pulled out of my cousin and flopped beside him on the bed. We kissed tenderly.

'That was great, cuz," he whispered, and we kissed again.

John's legs were still dangling off the edge of the bed, and Peter stood between them and jacked off while he watched us. Soon he was spurting his load also, and cum shot all over the two of us as we lay there kissing.

Afterwards, while we cleaned up a little in Peter's bathroom, Peter made a phone call to the upstairs.

"The police have gone." he informed us. "Thank you both, sirs, for a very entertaining afternoon. You must come again sometime. I will give you honorary membership cards as you exit. Now if you will come this way."

Peter, once more in his Maitre d' outfit, led us back upstairs. At the door, we returned the coats he had lent us, and as promised gave us honorary memberships. I learned later that regular membership in the club was £10 000 initiation fee and £2500 a year.

"Thank you so much for coming," he told us. "So much more fun than serving rich old men who make lewd comments about one's family jewels."

As we made our way back to John's 'baby,' he commented:

"First thing we do when we get home is move you into my bedroom."

"What will Moira say?" I objected.

"She won't say a thing," he assured me. "She prefers women, anyway."

I spent two more fun weeks with John, but we never did go back to the club.

But at least I can claim - honestly - sort of - that I survived a raid in a London air-raid shelter.

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