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Apart from the sensation of his tongue touching my most intimate, sensitive spot, I was really turned on by seeing the lad wanking his own cock as he knelt between my splayed legs. The fact that he'd be so aroused pressing his mouth between my arse-cheeks to have to masturbate almost as quickly as I was, was hugely exciting.

I glanced up to see that we were being watched by another guy over the top of the partition. I'd seen the same guy a couple of weeks earlier – he was Mediterranean-looking and probably in his mid-twenties – and knew that he enjoyed being fucked.

The idea of inviting him in to join us and of fucking him while the young lad was eating my arse sprung into my mind, but I almost instantly started shooting gobs of cum against the wall in front of me.

I think the two of them had coupled up after I'd cleaned up and left.

Over the following few days, I gave a lot of thought to what I'd done in the toilet cubicle with the young lad that evening – and not only to replay it for recreational purposes. It dawned on me how great a risk I'd taken to have sex with a stranger in a place that was such an obvious target for the police or for queer-bashers.

It was too late to try and forget that the toilets existed, I realised that, but I was going to have to be a lot more careful.

I toyed with the idea of meeting guys through the internet and bringing them home with me for sex, but that seemed even more risky than the toilets. After all, I'd have no idea how seedy the guy I'd arranged to meet might turn out to be – photos and descriptions can be very misleading – and what if one of them was to return to my house when Melissa was at home?

No – the internet idea was out of the question.

I decided, then, that I'd pick guys up in the toilets and have sex with them somewhere else that was a lot safer.

The first night I returned to them, a weasly-looking guy in his forties peered over the partition wall to watch me wanking in my cubicle and I asked him, in low whispers, if he fancied taking a walk in the park adjoining the toilet block.

He nodded and we went for a short walk. He told me that he worked for the university – I don't know if I believed him – and then we found some bushes which seemed to offer us quite a lot of privacy. He sucked my cock quite affectionately – kissing it and murmuring at it – and then I fucked him with him bending over a low-hanging branch.

He thanked me afterward – which struck me as quaintly polite – and we went our separate ways.

Over the following few months, I devised a series of rules to help protect myself during my evenings out. That's not to say I spent every week prowling the park toilets: if the weather wasn't up to much, or I felt tired or something, I'd stay in and browse the internet. I'd also managed to discretely acquire a few DVDs which had all-male themes and so some weeks could tell Melissa, in all-honesty, that I'd spent an enjoyable evening in front of the television on her return from her night class.

First of all, I kept away from guys who looked too young and pretty to be looking for sex in a toilet. Apart from the fact that I soon found that they rarely allowed themselves to be fucked – an activity which I soon came to regard as a necessity – someone once tipped me off that a few of them could be 'plants', and I don't think he meant in the green sense.

Second, I kept a good supply of condoms on me. It seemed that whenever I would run out, there'd suddenly be whole armies of hot-looking guys desperate to be fucked without a single johnnie between them.

Third, to invite a guy back to my house – which I'd do occasionally, especially during the summer months in which the park wasn't a safe option – I'd have to be sure that he was looking only for a one-off sexual encounter with me (so no danger of return visits) and that he preferred to be fucked rather than to do the fucking.

I had a nasty experience, early on, with a guy who had arms as thick as tree-trunks and a chest like concrete. I guess he was a bricklayer or something.

He was about my age, wore a wedding ring I noticed, and on the way back to my place said he liked, as he put it, "being bummed."

His idea of what being bummed entailed turned out to be widely different from mine, and he ended up, after just a few minutes of half-hearted wanking and cock-sucking, fucking me relentlessly for nearly two hours with one of the biggest, thickest cocks I've ever seen.

I was still cleaning up when Melissa got home and had to think quickly of ways to explain the puddle of lube on the dining room table, the fingerprints all over the top of the glass coffee-table where I'd been bending over it, and the small odd-coloured blood stain on the white fabric of the sofa. Fortunately, she didn't ask why I was walking so uncomfortably.

So from then on, I'd question guys almost neurotically on their sexual preferences before offering them to come over to mine. That's not to say that I never get fucked – if the mood takes me, I sometimes kind of enjoy it – but I have to be sure that I'm not going to get split in two when I do so.

I'd say about half of my 'nights alone' these days involve a visit to the park toilets. Sometimes I go swimming at the local pool because I discovered that the changing rooms offer quite a few opportunities to pick up guys late in the evenings. Or sometimes I stay in.

Occasionally a guy called Malcolm will phone me at work and he'll come over in the evening for one of his 'visits'. Malcolm is a couple of years older than me and I think he's a bank manager, but we don't say much about our everyday lives. He used to be a regular in the toilets and the two of us had a few sessions in the park bushes. After we'd found that our tastes were very – how shall I put it – complementary, I asked him back home with me and we began meeting up for sex on an occasional basis.

It turned out that Malcolm's wife worked late nights and he'd developed his taste for same-sex encounters simply because, as he put it, "it's easier to hook up with a man than a woman".

Our routine is fairly predictable, but I kind of enjoy that.

He comes over, we make a little small talk while I pour the two of us a glass of wine, and then we head upstairs to the spare room. We undress, making more small talk, and then get onto the bed together. We wank each other a little and then take turns to suck each other off. At some point, I'll turn him over and rim him – he's always fastidiously clean – and then pull on a condom and fuck him. He'll take it for a while, sort of half-enjoying it, and then pull away from me and ask me to suck him again.

If I notice his glass is empty, I'll offer him a refill and he'll usually accept it. Sometimes he'll take a swig of it and say something like, "Lovely vintage this, Sebastian. French is it?" while my face is buried in his arse or I'm sucking his cock, and I'll murmur an appropriate response while trying to keep up my rhythm.

Occasionally he'll ask to fuck me, and I'll let him because his cock is quite a nice fit, but he says – and I don't take it personally – that he doesn't like the smell of anal sex and so he doesn't ask for it very often.

Usually I come inside him while I'm having one of my turns at fucking him and then he'll pull off me and wank himself to climax while I play with his balls.

We clean up, making more small talk and asking about each other's wives and kids, and then I see him out.

He's a nice guy: he adores his wife but just happens to enjoy sex far more than she's willing to give it. So he uses me, and I use him, and we're both pretty happy with that.

I once asked Malcolm if he had any other guys who he paid 'visits' to.

He'd nodded. "A student I meet over in Headingley and a guy in Beeston; I think he's a plumber."

"Do you do the same sort of stuff with them as with me?"

He'd shrugged. "The student is a lot more affectionate with me. Likes to kiss and cuddle. I'm getting a bit worried about him, actually. The plumber is pretty much the same as you. Likes anal sex."

I'd smiled. "Maybe the four of us should get together some time?"

He'd shook his head, looking like he'd been expecting the suggestion. "I prefer to keep things like this, if you don't mind. Nice and simple."

I'd nodded, thinking that perhaps he had a good point.

A month or so later, cleaning up in the bathroom after sex, he'd asked me if I had any other regular 'visitors'.

I'd pulled the condom from my cock and wrapped it in toilet paper to be slyly disposed of. Malcolm was wiping his arse.

I'd said, "I sometimes pick guys up in the loos or at the swimming pool."

He'd thrown the toilet paper into the toilet bowl and then pulled a few more sheets from the roll to wipe the beads of semen from his chest and stomach.

He'd said, "Well, you need to be careful."

I nodded. "I know."

He went on, cleaning his spent cock with the paper, "It's better to meet the same people regularly. Much safer."

"But that would take away most of the fun."

He'd smiled and nodded. "Well, be sure to be careful."

He's right: I do need to be more careful.

Melissa became suspicious about a month ago when she'd phoned up at about nine o'clock to ask me to record some programme on the television for her and had noticed that I was a little breathless when I was talking to her.

She'd asked, "What are you doing, Sebastian? Why are you panting?"

"I just ran downstairs to get to the phone. I'm just a little out of breath from that..."

She'd done one of her 'hmmm's and suggested that I ought to start going to the swimming pool more regularly if I was finding running down the stairs so onerous.

I had actually been to the pool that same night. In fact, Melissa had phoned right in the middle of me having a secondary-school teacher who'd I'd met in the changing rooms ride my cock on the kitchen table.

I'd said, "That's a really good idea. I think I'll do that."

She'd hung up and I'd returned to kitchen to see what else the teacher could teach me.

Over the next couple of weeks, I'd half-expected her to surprise me by returning home early on some pretence to try and catch me in the act. I turned Malcolm down when he requested a visit, envisaging Melissa bursting in on us in the spare room: taking a break from lighting incense sticks and sniffing aromatherapy oils to come flailing through the door, wild-eyed and snarling.

But she didn't so I guess she'd accepted my rather unconvincing excuse.

One of these days, though, I'm going to get caught out. I know that I will – it's obvious – but until then I'm just going to enjoy my 'night alone' while I can.

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