I'm sure you've experienced that erotic moment when you enter an elevator, or similarly confined space, to find you're wedged up against some stud so hard that his dick is almost imprinted on your body and you feel you're going to be sporting it like some kind of torrid tattoo for the rest of your life. Then before you've reached the seventh floor -- or seventh heaven -- it's over. Or come and gone if you'll excuse the expression. Then there are other moments, which seem to take an eternity like having the hots for somebody's husband or your wife's brother and having to take it long and slow before anything comes of it. Both such moments linger long in the memory, which is probably why we hang on to them so tightly. Or rent a gay movie in order to experience similar ones second hand and maybe even rewind and look at them over and over again.

Talking of movies, I was looking at Bette Davis in "Of Human Bondage" the other night. It was made in 1934 when that seven-letter word didn't seem to have the connotations it has now although closet queen authors like W. Somerset Maugham had to write about problems of the heart between men and women when it was blatantly obvious - at least to us nowadays - that their books or plays were about love in denial between men and men. You know like Tennessee Williams used to do all the time only more recently. Now in this so-called "modern" age of James Bond and male bonding we're still getting cautiously veiled subjects like 'He's Not Really Into You' and 'I Love You Man.' But we're getting there. Slowly. Which gets me back to where I came in. Getting there slowly.

I think you'll agree with me that the capacity for human suffering is amazing. Especially when it comes to beating yourself up over some guy who isn't gay. Of course, a lot of our problems are caused by our very own selves especially when we misread signals or don't have the courage of our own convictions. My 'affair' with Peter is a case in point. It flared up, sizzled for a season, and then fermented inside me until it threatened to peter out. Which figures I suppose considering his name. Loving Peter from afar was like following a long, winding road leading to a shaky bridge over a yawning chasm that separated the gates of Heaven from the jaws of Hell. If you've ever been there you'll know what I mean.

I saw him first three months ago when he moved in across the hall. I gave him a hand to carry some of his furniture up the last flight of stairs to the top floor. The elevator stopped one floor below us. After a few short but strenuous trips he whipped off his t-shirt and wiped his brow with it, giving me a chance to watch the sweat drip down his ab-track to the pubic hairbrush below. It was just a split second or two while he yanked the t-shirt over his head so he didn't catch me looking at him. Or at least I don't think he did. Then he turned to grab hold of a table and his loose jeans fell lower on his hips and I got an eyeful of the top of his glutes as well. Maybe he hadn't noticed I'd been helping myself to a sneak preview of his gorgeous body but the expression on my face must have been a dead give away. He took advantage of that moment to introduce himself and tell me he had just separated from his wife. Just to be sure I didn't get any funny ideas I suppose. Not that I have much sense of humour in such circumstances. I'm usually dead serious, if not exactly deadpanned. All that notwithstanding, he invited me in for a beer to thank me for my help. He was a personal trainer, which of course explained the body. Soon he was filling my eager ears with tales of his latest conquests and turning himself on as he did so. I noticed a definite bulge develop in his jeans. One client was a well-known TV actress and very beautiful. I tried to share his appreciative interest in her soft comely curves and not too much open delight in his hard athletic firmness but I'm afraid this proved a bit difficult as his buffed body was spread out half-naked before me, glistening with sweat, and the bulge in his pants was getting bigger all the time. In erotic stories of this nature the guy usually ends up in the shower and asks you to join him but I'm sorry to disappoint you and say that this didn't happen in my case. Not immediately anyway.

Instead he asked me to help him fit his bed together. I kid you not. It was one of those wooden structures with a high footboard and headboard. He'd matched the wood with the beams of the low oak ceiling. It looked really great when we'd finished but unfortunately he didn't ask me to try it out. I retired as gracefully as I could, my woody feeling like a piece of oak itself, and told him to drop by if he needed anything. Kind of a dumb statement to make as it was full of double entendres, as they say in French. I slept pretty badly that night. Kept having visions of that rickety bridge over the yawning chasm. In my dream it seemed to be made up of bamboo struts. They were big, smooth and hard. Just like I imagined Peter's bamboo shoot would be. And the yawning chasm was my ass opening up to him. The whole shaky structure rang in my ears like tubular bells. The jangle of Peter jacking off all over me. I woke up with the biggest hard-on I'd had in quite some while. I wondered if there was any way of getting into his pants. Not that he'd exactly encouraged me the day before. Just filled my ears with pussy talk. But I knew from past experience that straight guys quite often did that. It was a kind of sexual smoke screen that got them all heated up and ready for the nearest orifice available. Maybe I could ask him to give me a massage or something. Anyway, in spite of the hots I felt for him, I decided to play it cool.

Days turned into weeks and then into months but didn't exactly flash by. I tried to lead a normal life - as much as any gay guy can - but it was hellish difficult. And it was hell. Not that I saw him all that often as we seemed to have different work schedules but I thought of him all the time. And I mean all the time. Of course I would hear him coming and going. Listen to the key turning in his lock and wish it were turning in mine. Or I'd eavesdrop on a conversation he was having with some girl or other, and so on and so forth. I went clubbing and cruised the bars and attempted to immerse myself sexually in someone else but it was no good. As per usual in such barren lovelorn moments the radio always seemed to be playing songs like 'And So It Goes' and I got poor consolation from the fact that at least a thousand others must be feeling just like me. It seemed such a waste. All that hunky meat just across the hall from me and I was living the life of a vegetarian.

Once, just after Thanksgiving, I heard him coughing on the stairs and peeped out to ask him if he was ok. He said he was but then as I didn't see or hear him for nearly a week I eventually plucked up the courage to knock on his door. He said he was getting over the flu so 'Mother Hubbard' took him some beef broth to build up his strength and felt a bit like the wolf visiting Red Riding Hood. But he recovered pretty quickly and that was the end of that. Another golden opportunity missed.

I kept telling myself to give up the struggle and resign myself to the fact that he wasn't into men and that, even if he was, he wasn't into me. He didn't even seem to want me as a friend. That is until his divorce papers came through and he was clearly elated, or over the moon or whatever the expression is. All I knew about moons during that terrible period was that they were always blue and that I was moonstruck and generally mooning about the place like a lonesome coyote. Anyway to cut this long story short, he asked me in for another beer. "Three months between drinks!" I found myself thinking. Actually I drank quite a lot before I even arrived. Scotch whisky to give myself Dutch courage. I wanted to appear laid back and relaxed but failed miserably.

He was coming out of the shower when I got there which was quite a surprise to me because I was late and also I hadn't expected to be his only guest. Everything morphed together in my fuzzy head. His beefy pecs, which seemed to have developed even more since I'd last seen them, the smallness of the towel, the trail of hair from his belly-button to his pubes and, most of all, the thick muscular thighs which I had never seen and which reminded me of nutcrackers.

"I've just got back from the gym," is all he said, sitting down and spreading out his legs.

He'd done that the first day I'd met him but he was wearing jeans at the time. Now I could see the base of his balls and the tip of his dick in one tasty package. I mentally licked my lips.

"What a cock-teaser," I thought. "Why does he always play these games with me? "

"You're looking pretty glum," he said. "What's the matter?"

"I'm depressed," I said.

"Thought you'd come to celebrate my new freedom."

"Sorry." I replied and just stared open-mouthed at his balls. I'm so transparent.

"Maybe you need a comforter. You know like a mother gives to a baby."

"I'm not into tits," I said, rather tersely. "That's your department."

"I wasn't thinking about tits," he said, touching himself in case I hadn't got the point.

The miniscule towel fell apart at the seams.... and so did I as his dick came into full view.

"I thought you were straight," I told him, noticing that his dick most definitely was.

"I thought you didn't like me," was his reply.

"What gave you that idea?"

"The way you looked the other way every time I let down my guard and showed you my body."

"I didn't want you to think I was hitting on you," I gulped, my lips salivating for his juicy dick.

"I tried to tell you I was up for grabs; that I'd left my wife but you were so cold and unfriendly."

"Unfriendly! What about when I helped you with the bed and the time I brought you hot soup?"

"But you scuttled out the door before I could show you my appreciation."

"And you always talked about women!"

"That was just talk. Anyway, maybe I was sounding you out."

"Couldn't you see I was crazy for you?"

"Seeing isn't always believing," he said, contradicting himself by opening his nutcrackers even wider and displaying his huge nuts. "Cut the cackle and put my dick where your mouth is?"

I didn't need a second invitation and buried my face in his crotch, nuzzling and chomping on his coconuts and running my tongue up the trunk of his tree so I could sip the sweet nectar that was soon seeping out of it. He began dick-slapping my cheeks with his dripping penis. I opened my mouth to protest and was suddenly dumbstruck as he gagged me with the fabulous thing. My lips locked like iron shutters clamping down on him. I grabbed his gymnast's glutes for support and started to build up a very slow but methodical rhythm, working my fingers into his ass as I did so. He whimpered and moaned. I couldn't believe it. My hot straight-looking neighbour was actually moaning at what my moist mouth and foraging fingers were doing to him. All the waiting had been worth it. I took a big breath through my nostrils and sucked away at him with renewed vigour.

'Strike while the iron is hot' they say and I couldn't have found a hotter iron if I'd tried. The steam was fairly hissing out of it. Or maybe I was confusing it with the sound coming from between his lips, or the molten saliva which was streaming out of the sides of my mouth in its effort to give him a lubing he would never forget. He gazed down at me and we exchanged a look of mutual lust as he came in seismic spasms and nearly pulled my hair out by its roots.

"I've never had my dick sucked by a guy," he said as we lay side by side.

He made no further comment but I knew from the way he'd shuddered when he came in my mouth that 'never' is a long time and that I'd started him on the road to pleasurable perdition.

Later he grilled some steaks and then he 'grilled' me. If his dick had been hot in my mouth, it fairly sizzled in my ass. And I really appreciated the work we'd done on those bed boards. I had to hang on like grim death to the footboard as he fucked me with one leg over his shoulder and ground my bulging butt to sawdust, all the while gripping the overhead beam to give himself extra leverage. When he hit my prostate sweet spot I almost hit the low ceiling. He flipped me over and banged me senseless as he wedged me against the headboard and pummelled the living shit out of me. And I chose my words carefully. He was a long distance runner and I went through a purgatory of pain and pleasure before I felt big globs of his spunk splatting against my ass crack and dribbling down my thighs. My cup was literally running over. One of the high spots was pinching his erect nipples between my fingers and making furrows in his back with my nails as he ploughed me. They say when the going gets tough, the tough get going and we came and went in every position imaginable. I climaxed all over him and left a milky puddle on his six-pack. Then I licked his perfect pec platter clean and kissed him so he could appreciate the sweet salty tang of it too. When we'd finally run out of cum and ideas, we lay speechless and boneless for a long time. I was the first to say something.

"Were you waiting for your divorce to become final before you fucked me?" I asked him at last.

"Maybe," he said smiling. "I can't remember. Why don't you roll over and refresh my memory."

I did as I was told, happy as a dog with his bone. Or, in my case, boner. After all, I was in my very own home movie where I could rewind and replay as much, and as often, as I wanted. Even in slow motion. And, after three long months, finally reap the benefits of getting there slowly.