Buried deep down (James Lester)
As long as his wife doesn’t know, as long as his children don’t know, as long as none of his friends or colleagues or casual acquaintances know, as long as he goes out for drinks with friends to talk about cars and football and women they can’t fuck because of or have fucked despite their wives, as long as he plays the perfect father during the weekends, as long as he makes love to his wife every Saturday evening after the children have gone to bed (Friday they’re still tired after work, Sunday is spoiled by Monday morning) he’s safe.
As long as the world is oblivious to what happens in his apartment he’s not the man who shivers with delight as muscles dance under his palm, who gets hard watching a strong fist move over rigid flesh teasingly, who relishes the exquisite flavour of another man’s pleasure, who moans and begs for more when a thick cock thrusts into him in wild abandon, shattering him into a million little pieces as he soils the white sheets. As long as no one knows it never happened and he can keep telling the lie he is clinging to like a lifeline.