One of our kings (it was one of the Georges, but I'm not sure which one) on his deathbed is said to have remarked "Bugger Bognor". As he was a straight old reprobate, he possibly didn't know that Brighton - on the South Coast of England - was, and I think still is, in all probability the capital of buggery in Britain, not Bognor.

I mention this only in an historical context, although Brighton remains (at least in my opinion) the capital per capita, of gay sex in England. Certainly as far as coastal resorts in the UK are concerned. There is an alternative. Blackpool. But there are more subtle towns than Blackpool.

I remember on one occasion I went into a gay bar in Blackpool. As I ordered a drink, a very acceptable guy came up to me and whispered in my ear, "I'm going to fuck you tonight."

Well, how could anybody resist such a romantic invitation? I have to confess that I didn't. We had several drinks in the bar. I think I had more than him because at the end of the evening, at closing time, I was considerably the worse for wear.

The guy (I never discovered his name) took me to his very swish house, in a leafy suburb. We went to bed in the master bedroom that had several mirrors placed at strategic intervals, plus a very large mirror on the ceiling. So the act of copulation was visible from any angle - nothing was unobserved. And I know that he had at least one camera running in the room, as I could hear the slight whirring noise it made.

The man was quite attractive and must have been about 30 years old - about 10 years older than I was at the time. I like a chest with hair, providing there isn't so much hair that you can't see the nipples, which should be well defined, and dark. He also had a slim waist, tight buns but was starting to go slightly bald.

However, he was a very good fuck. He had me in every position possible - and in some I couldn't have imagined. Perhaps he wrote the Kama Sutra. He certainly had the imagination!

One position, which I particularly remember, was what he called "the windmill" His ample cock was placed deep inside my arse, with me laying on my stomach. Then he swiveled around in a clockwise direction, so that I was really screwed.

If you've experienced this manoeuvre, you will appreciate why it is called the windmill, and I bet you thoroughly enjoyed the sensation. The guy obviously liked this innovation and spun himself round faster and faster. He did it in both clockwise and anti-clockwise directions. I don't know about him, but I felt dizzy and all I was doing was lying there and letting it happen.

He was really good, and screwed me several times during the night, letting his cum spew out all over me, either back or front or on my face, depending on where his thick, jerking cock happened to be at the time.

Blackpool, as I said, is brash. Very acceptable if you want slam, bang and thank you, ma'am, sex.

But to get back to Brighton. James and I (or should that be James and me?) were spending the summer vacation in the south coast resort known as Brighton. In the 1920's and onwards until the post war era, Brighton was the accepted place for heterosexual liaisons on the weekend. Commonly known here in the UK as "dirty weekends".

Not being heterosexual, I can't confirm or deny that straight dirty weekends still occur. But gay weekends certainly happen throughout the year. And the owners of the gay hotels, of which there are hundreds, take everything, and I mean everything, in their stride. Although sometimes one does receive a jealously raised eyebrow, I have had some really fascinating experiences in Brighton.

This particular vacation - both of us from public school, me before entering the world of landed gentry estates, and James before going up to Oxford - was our last chance of being together for several months, before we went onwards towards our chosen futures.

We didn't intend to waste the opportunities available.

James, being the heir to a Dukedom decided to do nothing except slob around - as is the way of the British aristocracy. I had to earn some money. As a matter of principle, you understand, because I knew that if I couldn't earn a living, James would ensure that I didn't miss out on - anything.

So I took a job selling ice cream on the beach.

Not any old beach you understand, but on the nudist beach. My boss was an old queen of indeterminate age, but who could still live it up in the clubs and illegal drinking spots until the early hours. It didn't seem to affect him at all, although he probably slept while I was strutting my stuff selling the ice creams.

He had this thing about guys. Yes, I know we all have, but his was slightly different to the usual employer/employee situation.

He liked his employees to be nude.

Therefore, I paraded naked on the nudist beach selling my ices. The money was put into a slot in the tray - and no change was ever offered. The argument was that any change that a punter should have received was the charge for being able to gloat at, and buy from, a handsome nude hunk. Nobody seemed to mind, and that added extra profit for the old queen, and increased my commission. Extra cash for him to spend in the nightclubs, drinking dens, casinos and gay bars.

James thought that the whole idea was a good laugh and spent most of his time on the beach, watching.

Now my cock is no shrinking violet. Even when "at rest" it makes an impression. And when I put the straps for the ice cream tray over my shoulders and let the tray rest against my stomach, my cock really stuck out. That was possibly why there were never any complaints about the lack of change.

should be told is a cone of - usually soft - ice cream with a milk chocolate flake shoved into it.

I walked slowly along the nudist beach, selling ice creams to a mixed sex, heterosexual crowd. I know they were straight because at the end of that beach I walked around a small promontory, and on the other side of that rocky mass, was the gay nudist beach.

Here trade really picked up. The gay guys rushed up to me by the dozens, all wanting a lick at what I was selling.

Some of them wanted a lick at what I wasn't selling.

They crowded round my ice cream tray in a tight circle. That wasn't the only thing that was tight. I had to clench my buttocks in order to repel unwanted intruders. That, of course, meant that my cock stuck out even more than usual, which in turn encouraged some of the more adventurous naked hunks to explore my cock and balls.

I, of course, was doing what I was paid to do, i.e., sell ice creams, choc-ices and lollipops - although I was very aware what was going on underneath my tray.

One of the punters favourite tricks was to rub their ice cream cones around my balls and then lick them clean. Another trick was to get a mouthful of the soft ice cream and then dive down on my cock.

I can tell you that was always quite a shock and always drew a gasp from me. The rest of the punters instinctively knew what was happening down below and had no hesitation in giving way to raucous laughter and kneeling on the pebbles to watch.

The lucky guy with his mouth full of cock and ice cream would roll my penis around his cold but slick mouth, plunging up and down on my rod. Quite quickly the ice melted, although it always took the sucker a little time to get my penis back up to size. Wouldn't your manhood shrink if suddenly surrounded my cold gooey stuff?

Naturally, when the ice cream had melted and been swallowed, the lucky guy would start to work really hard to get a mouthful of hot, gooey cream. He would usually roll back my foreskin with his lips and manipulate the sensitive glans, driving my rod deep into his mouth, before I shot a load down his throat.

Another ploy which the guys had worked out, was to buy a "99" which for those of you who are not into ices, should be told is a cone of - usually soft - ice cream with a milk chocolate flake shoved into it.

Whilst licking and smoothing the ice cream and chocolate, they would casually and lightly stroke my anus. After all, it isn't possible to keep it clenched all the time. And in any case, who would want to? This of course, resulted in my arse starting to twitch and throb automatically. Then when my hole was relaxing, they would plunge the cold concoction into me.

When they pulled out the cone, the flake remained inside, starting to melt. Immediately, whichever lucky sod had manipulated the flake, would immediately start to lick, chew, and suck it in and out of my hole, until there was nothing left excepting a splodgy mess of molten chocolate.

I remember on one occasion, James had watched the various escapades with a slightly "raised eyebrow" expression on his face. You know the sort of look I mean. That special look which a lover can have when he thinks: "But I know what we can really get up to, when we are both really hot."

James joined the queue, and when he was at the front, whilst asking for a "99" (when all the time I knew that what he wanted was a 69) gently lifted his knee so that it was caressing my balls.

"Sorry, Sir," I said. "I'm right out of flakes. I'll have to go and get some from the store."

"I'll come with you," said James without a pause or a flicker of embarrassment.

"I bet you will," I thought. After all I knew James almost as well as he knew himself. Yes, he definitely wanted to cum with me.

We walked back to the refrigerated store. As it happened, the old queen wasn't in sight. Probably propping up the bar in "The Brighton Beau".

Which meant that we had the place to ourselves, at least for the time being. James dropped the latch on the door as I took off the tray. Without any preamble, James bent me over one of the freezers and rammed his already hard cock deep inside me.

Christ, it was cold. Not his rampant rod - the freezer. I wanted to move over to the couch on which the old queen sometimes had a snooze. But James would have none of it.

"When I fuck, I fuck where I want to fuck. Not where some open-arsed tart wants it."

Ooh, he is a dominant, active, domineering queer. But lovely with it!

While he was slamming his rigid rod into me, he was gnawing at my neck. I knew that quite soon the back of my neck would be covered by love-bites, which as I was nude, I couldn't cover up. I could hardly wear nothing except a silk scarf while I was parading myself and my wares on the beach.

Nothing would stop James - aristocrats have the facility of ignoring everything and everybody that might want to stop them getting their own way. I think it was the unusual venue that changed James' normally considerate lovemaking. On this occasion he slammed, banged, scratched and bit during his attack on my hole and prostate.

Eventually, as usual, he shot a vast load of hot, creamy cum up into me and lay on top of me getting his breathe back. Meanwhile I was experiencing a rather strange sensation, a frozen front from the freezer, and a hot and sticky back from James.

Suddenly, an outraged, high-pitched, voice said, "Excuse me!"

"Get in the queue," said James automatically.

"Thank you," said the camp old queen, who must have thought he'd won the lottery. Obviously he hadn't been having a quick pint in "The Brighton Beau" but kipping on the sofa, before our growling and squelching woke him. "With pleasure."

James spun round, his cock slipping out of my dripping hole. I stood up, released the catch on the door, and left James to his fate.