Winging It. It is what it is. Get over it.

I get strange emails. People look at the cover of Winging It — it’s clear enough, isn’t it? Two young men, naked. on a bed and about to kiss each other. What do these people imagine they’re going to do next? The reviews are pretty straightforward too — as explicit as the book. This one appeared in AmiesBookReviews — you can find it on Amazon: This is the story of James (Jimmy) Carlton. The story begins when he is 18 in the 1950s in England and details his struggles with his sexuality. It also contains graphic descriptions of his introduction to the act of sexual intercourse and more. In today’s society Jimmy would be labelled a bisexual, but that word did not even exist in the 1950s. He wrote with great detail (a bit too much detail in my opinion) about his sexual experiences which is why I say that this book is not suitable for children. In fact, it is probably too graphic for many adults. * Note* These sex scenes are sometimes homosexual encounters and sometimes heterosexual encounters, but they all take place between consenting adults.
On Goodreads, Evija Kreišmane from Latvia said this:
I tried “50 shades” out of curiosity, and got rid of the book after just first 50 pages. Don’t see the point of that kind of descriptions. But it was totally different with this book. I liked it and I enjoyed it, i got involved till the very end.
It’s not that I suddenly started to enjoy descriptions of the act. I didn’t. I was shocked at first, I wanted to squeeze my eyes shut. I kept reading though. And I have to admit that this got the message delivered and helped to form my opinion about the characters, lifestile they were leading and environment surrounding them. I was there. Fully involved. When I accepted this nakedness around which the story evolved, it totally got under my skin. I was there with those guys instead of beeing just a passive observer from aside. What I did understand very quickly was that those descriptions were merely a tool of showing the objective Picture not the Picture itself. And the tool was chosen right. I approve of that.
At one point, after about 120 pages I got used to the fact of never ending sexual acts, and it became a little bit boring. Nothing ever changed. I thought to myself, that’s enough. Another hundred pages would just be too much. But it did change.
The ending was beautiful and made me rethink once more what i had read in those first pages. It gave a completely different angle to look at things. And it got the job done, it worked my brains. I love the books, which don’t spoon-fead me. This is one more reason I liked the book. Everyone can draw their own conclusions.

So there you are. It could hardly be clearer. Winging It is as clear and detailed a description of what it is that men do when they’re in bed together with other men, or with women, as you could possibly hope to read. If that turns you on, you know what to do. Just in case you’re still not sure, here’s a short extract that shows the young Jimmy being seduced by the older Guy:

Guy was old school. Marlborough College. Oxford. Recruited by the BBC through a friend of his uncle. In 1939, joined Military Intelligence after a word in the right ear from another uncle, a brigadier. After the war, back to the BBC. He looked like what he was; the well-fed, well educated, expensively dressed son of an old family. He did not look queer. It was best not to in his day. But he knew who all the queers were, and he spotted a new one.
‘Come for dinner, old man. We need to know each other better.’
Dinner was at Guy’s club. He knew everyone. Men stopped by our table to chat. And to give me the once-over. One or two handed me their cards. ‘We should meet.’ Guy watched without comment.
His flat in The Albany was walking distance away. ‘Let’s have coffee at my place, old man.’ The way you might invite a girl. Which was fine with me. It went with the French Knickers I wore under my trousers.
‘I live here during the week. My wife is in Gloucestershire and the children are away at school.’
On the table, a pot of very good coffee. Cream. Cubes of dark brown sugar in a bowl. Brandy in a crystal decanter. Two crystal glasses. On the sofa, Guy and me. Side by side.
‘So how do you think it’s going?’
‘?’
‘The BBC. Happy in your work?’
‘Yes. Thank you.’
‘Good. You’ll have noticed? Groups of friends? We help each other get on. Those we like.’
I had noticed—the groups of friends, at least. I was too new to have seen how careers could be advanced or held back but I’d take his word for it.
He put his arm round my shoulder. I rested my head against it. He was very close now. He put a hand on my chin, turned my face towards him, kissed me. I joined in. He said, ‘Do you have any special likes?’
‘I like you to take the lead.’
‘Understood, old man. Anything you won’t do?’
‘I haven’t found it yet.’
‘Well. Good. Do you think we might be more comfortable in the bedroom?’
We undressed on opposite sides of the bed. His eyes glowed when I left the knickers on. ‘Are those for me?’
‘Everything you see is for you.’
He was like Ben; another big, commanding man. On the table on his side of the bed, a bottle of oil. Tissues. Vaseline. When he rolled over me, embracing, I felt contained. One hand slipped up my knicker leg to grasp my cock. I put my arms round his back and let my legs part. His tongue slithered into my mouth. Submission. Relief. In both senses.
After he had dealt with my erection, I took his into my mouth. Longer than Ben’s. Thicker.
‘I want to be inside you.’
I lay back while he rolled the knickers down my legs. He took the Vaseline and prepared me, and then himself. I wrapped my legs round his back and my arms round his shoulders. When he pushed into me it was something he had done before; something he knew how to do. He paused several times in his thrusting, prolonging the moment. Then he came in me.
We lay, locked in each other’s arms. His breath smelt sweet. His breathing was steady and regular. Then he rolled me onto my front, went to the bathroom and came back with a warm, damp flannel and a warm towel. He cleaned me. ‘Do you have to go?’
‘I’d need to be in a taxi at six. I can stay the night. If you want me to.’
‘That’s good. I always call home about this time. To say goodnight.’
‘Go ahead.’
I lay in bed and listened. ‘Dinner with a colleague. Some things we had to discuss. No, I’m alone now.’ Then, ‘Goodnight, darling. I’ll see you on Friday. Late, probably. The Audleys? Saturday? Yes, we can do that. All right, darling. Yes, you too.’

If that doesn’t turn you on, this is not the book for you. If it does, the link is at the top of this page.