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If I had to be specific, if you were to force me to express a preference, I guess I'd have to say that when it comes to women, I'm probably a tit man. But it'd be a pretty close run thing - the whole package is pretty nice.

As far as my attraction to other men is concerned, though, I'm definitely an arse man. Nothing else even registers on the dial when it's competing against the firm, round, tight buttcheeks of another guy. Maybe it's because guys' arses look a little like girls' tits - I don't know - but I do know that, from a fairly early age, I've been fascinated by them.

There's something really satisfying about lying chest-to-chest with another man, staring into his eyes and running your fingers through his hair. There's something wonderfully elegant about the sweep of his back; a raw, masculine beauty in the muscles of his forearms and thighs. I love the feel of his cock, poking into me insistently; and of his balls, slamming against me while he pleasures himself inside my body.

But all those fade into insignificance in comparison to the pleasure of turning him over to find he has a good, solid arse ripe for exploration. All those are just window dressings.

The seduction of another man's arse has to be one of life's most exquisite pleasures. Running your fingers up and down his crack, enjoying the tickle of his wiry cleft hair. Then finding his most precious spot and hearing him gasp at that first touch. Feeling the slight wetness to it; puckered and opening; slick and inviting. Smelling him; licking him; tasting him. Being so intimate to such a personal area of him and hearing him whimper in pleasure. Then, slowly so as not to alarm him, climbing onto him; pressing your aching, swollen cock into him and feeling him tighten around it. The two of you sweating as you writhe and buck; his arse slurping on your cock like it was a lollipop. It's pretty much as good as it gets!

I find my mind wandering into areas like that, areas which perhaps it shouldn't, in the most mundane of places. My girlfriend's brother turns and bends to pick up a dropped napkin at a family meal and I'm wondering what it would be like to rip those tight black trousers down, yank his briefs down to the tops of his thighs and fuck him over the table. Whether he'd scream and call out my name like his sister does; whether he'd cum before me. Or my mate from work stands in front of me in the bus queue in the late afternoon drizzle and I'm checking out his buttcheeks bulging pertly in the seat of his chinos; imagining my tongue snaking between them through the leg of his baggy boxers, tasting his hot, wet hole, pungeant and sweaty from his day sitting in front of his computer.

I guess it shouldn't happen but it does. And when it does - boy - is it enjoyable!

I think it all goes back to my days going down to Hayle for the rugby. Not the games themselves - although there are plenty of opportunities for ones mind to wander during some of those scrums when guys' arses are pointing at you from all directions - but more the nights I had staying over at the Youth Hostel there when we'd driven down to watch a match.

We must have started staying there when I was really young - five or six, maybe - and, of course, I don't think guys' arses did a lot for me in those days. I was interested in them, I guess, just like every kid stares over at naked people, but I don't think I really focused on arses as being anything special and definitely not ones belonging to other males.

I think my first awakening must have happened when I was about thirteen. I was staying in the Youth Hostel with my dad, my brother Charlie and a cousin of mine from Bristol called Martin. Martin was a couple of years older than me and we didn't really get on that well. Aside from the age difference, which seemed like an impassable gulf back then, there was the fact that he had this thing about being from the city while I was a country lad. He regarded me as an inbred yokel; I regarded him as an arrogant tosser.

So it wasn't the most promising of starts. And, in fact, nothing really happened.

What did happen took place early one morning when everyone was waking up and starting to get ready to head off to a rugby game. As the hostel started to slowly come to life, I was sitting on the toilet in one of the bathrooms on the middle floor. Like I said, not the most promising of starts.

Martin walked in, grunted something incomprehensible over at me sitting on the toilet, then pulled off his teeshirt and shorts and stood waiting for the shower to warm up. There was nothing odd about that - the hostel only had two bathrooms and so on rugby match days when there's only guys staying there and everyone's in a rush to get ready at the same time, there's a kind of open-house atmosphere about the place.

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