The Boys of Bullaroo

It wasn't a new thing—nude swimming for men. It had always been so, and not only in Bullaroo either. Derrick had grown up in the heat of summer sleeping with three other men who'd only donned fleecy-cotton pyjamas in the winter; at other times of the year they didn't wear a stitch to bed, so he was no stranger to the unclothed male.

However, coinciding with the advent of Derrick's eighteenth birthday and his first visit to the leisure centre since his mother had left to live with his aunt, something new and wonderful had happened. He'd discovered a previously unknown and locked door—one to which he never knew he'd held the key.

It had been Michael Passdale, the twenty-one-year-old son of one of the local graziers, who'd been the first to come knocking at that door. Derrick had been swimming and was sitting on a bench in the changing room, his towel around his neck, his mind filled with how he could plan a new parcel delivery route that would allow him a daily half hour somewhere out of the way, so he could put his feet up on the back seat of his car, eat his lunch, and then pull his hat over his eyes and snooze for a short while.

It was only when he'd glanced up, he realised while he'd been concentrating on ways to manipulate his schedule he'd been idly inspecting Michael's body. The grazier's son had towelled off his hair and was languidly drying the "family jewels", perhaps with more attention than he might have had he not been aware that Derrick's steady gaze was locked on the parts of his anatomy he was attending to. He'd given Derrick a cheeky, lopsided grin, and then, after glancing at the obvious tumescence between Derrick's legs, had asked, "Need a hand with that, Derrick?"

Derrick wasn't really shocked; that was too strong a word for it. His reaction had been visceral—a cold grip in the guts and his testicles that he couldn't ignore. He knew instantly what that feeling meant; he'd taken care of those sorts of needs with his hand ever since he turned fifteen.

Michael Passdale had pulled him roughly into a change cubicle and had closed the door, wedging it shut with one knee as he leaned against Derrick, pushing him back against the cubicle wall. It was then, with Michael's urgent manipulations and hot breath against his cheek, he realised that other men could do with each other what he'd been doing by himself on a daily basis for the past three years. "Jesus, Michael…" he'd whispered, a few minutes later, as Michael Passdale groaned into his neck and collapsed against him. Derrick was amazed to realise he'd also "banged the billy" at the same time as his lanky friend.

They'd grinned at each other as Derrick had wiped himself off with his towel, and then had whispered a quick "See ya later."

He'd flattened himself against the cubicle wall, feeling oddly nervous, yet elated and pleased, to allow Michael to open the door to leave. "Later," the grazier's son had whispered, winking at him, and gently pinching one of Derrick's nipples as he peered cautiously into the change room and then left, pushing the door behind him.

"Crickey," Derrick had said to himself, rubbing his palm across the flat of his belly, and wondering if the hairs would dry stiff and matted like they usually did if he didn't have a hankie handy and had let it go all over himself. He had no idea if other blokes' spoof was the same as his own. It looked the same, it had felt as warm. The memory of Michael Passdale's clenching and release, and the soft groan against his neck as the man's knees buckled slightly, made Derrick hard again. He knew he wanted more. Just like the cubicle in which he stood, a door had opened he knew would never completely close again.

He'd left the stall door ajar and had sat back, his body hidden, but his legs from his knees down plainly visible to anyone who might have been outside in the changing room. Idly, he'd wondered if anyone else might gently prod the door open to see what was going on. He'd hoped another man with heat in his guts might do so, for he'd felt the need growing once more in the base of his belly. He ran his hand slowly between his legs, smiling at the heaviness he felt there, secretly wishing for a quiet tap at the cubicle door.

He was hooked.