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Best Friend’s Son (II) Burt’s Son – Part Two
I woke up early the next morning, as I usually do. I knew the k** would sleep late. On weekends, he never rose before noon and this morning he’d have a helluva hangover. Fuck – I felt like I had a hangover, too, and all I had was too many fucking Cokes. There were more texts from his dad. He was starting to ask about Labor Day weekend, which was coming up. That also happened to be the anniversary of me getting sober, so he was hinting about a visit.
I texted back, abruptly: “Touch and go, Burt. It’s been a rough week. Give me the weekend. We’ll see.”
Then I tossed the phone on the bed, leaving it behind. I didn’t want to deal with the k**’s dad this morning.
I went for a run to clear my head, but that didn’t work. Did a work out in the gym I’d set up downstairs. The k** had left it a mess, like he usually did, which pissed me off. I had to give credit where it was due, though: the fucker worked out like a b**st.
Now, as I pumped the steal, I could finally understand why: all those fucking muscles hiding all those fucking secrets.
At least a couple of hours went by. It took that long to get my cock under control. The dreams of the prior night had been lucid and intense: decidedly sexual. The exertion helped focus my energy elsewhere. I hadn’t worked out this hard in a while and it felt good, all that sweat.
At around 11:00 I came up from the basement, still uncertain how to approach this whole fucking mess and a little uncertain of myself, me being who I am when it comes to younger guys with muscles. And need.
And cherry.
I shook that out of my head and proceeded upstairs, using the adrenaline and testosterone to my advantage. Figured it was time to wake the bull … or, more aptly, the boy.
He didn’t take kindly to it like I knew he wouldn’t.
“Fuck,” he said, blinking, as I pulled back the bedsheets.
“Rise and shine, junior,” I said, grabbing his feet.
“Dammit – fuck –“ he said, resisting.
“As your dad once said to me, Ryan, the only way out of this hangover is through it. Drink this.”
“Not thirsty.”
“Sure ya are – drink it.”
It was water – a tall glass – but it would help in a little while. I was standing over him – towering, I would say, still sweating, pumped up quite a bit, I might add. The k** caught it – caught my vibe. He tried to not look – tried to make sure I didn’t catch him looking – but I did. I wondered how many times I’d missed his practiced, furtive glances. Such a fucking idiot I was, the realizations continuing to come. And such a fucking asshole I was – right about now – knowing what I was doing, even though I pretended that my care of him this morning was purely paternal. That’s what I told myself even as my jock strained with sweat and substance.
“Gonna puke,” he said.
So I put down the water and hauled his ass up, dragging him quickly into the smaller upstairs bathroom. It was closer, I told myself, and it was, but it was small, so the space would be confined. Close quarters. He wretched in the toilet while I squatted next to him, rubbing his back, showing him some tenderness. The sobs were coming back now. My hand wandered lower and he didn’t flinch at all.
Not that – just to be clear – puke gets me going. It fucking doesn’t. But taking care of the k**, he being all wound up and such – and he being in a position I was all too familiar with - well, you know…
Then, into the shower. Under the hot water I pulled down his shorts, which he tried to resist – “No!” he blurted, but it was too late.
“I don’t care, k**. Seen it all.”
He covered himself, but I handed him the soap. Of course it was hard. Of course it was. It being morning and all – but the k** had just puked and I don’t ever recall maintaining an erection during a vomit episode. Things were adding up.
“You watching me?” he asked, back turned.
“Yeah k** – I’m right here.”
“So – you are.”
“Son,” I said, earnest now. “I’m here because you’re hurtin’, not because you’re naked, okay? Also – you may puke again and I don’t want that shit on the tile, which I laid myself.”
Finally he turned, defiant, looking at me with uncommonly hard eyes – wet though they were. He cleaned his crack while he did so, spending more than a little time back there while he stared at me.
But I wasn’t looking down. I was looking right at his face.
“You should lose the beard, son. You’d look better without all that hair on your face. Anyway, you keep the rest of yourself shaved,” I said, glancing at his bare, rigid cock, giving just the hint of a smirk. “You may as well shave your face.”
He dropped the soap. And no – that’s not a fucking metaphor. He actually dropped it, turned all red, too.
His throat caught again as his cock twitched, and he turned back into the shower. And now I did take a long hard look at that perfect fucking ass. And guess what? It was a perfect fucking ass. I had to stop myself from making my tiger-sound. The muscle was tight, the glutes rode stupidly high. The soap made it all fucking porny.
And then he pushed it back, consciously or not, to get it rinsed, and my cock surged and I needed to get out of there, the steam was making me sweat again – think bad thoughts.
He gargled from the shower-head, drank some, too.
“That’ll help,” I said, looking down, trying to figure out how to exit. Then he turned it off. The silence descending.
“Towel please,” he squeaked, seeming vulnerable now, which was even more dangerous, but I handed it to him, and he wiped down, barely. It wasn’t a tease at all. It was just him – naked. Hung over. Trying to figure out who he was.
I was about to split – had my hand on the door knob – when he turned, looking at me.
“Thought you were gonna join me, Mr. James,” he said. There was both a hint of accusation and a sense of wistfulness. I realized, then, that he knew enough of the game (or had instincts about the game) that he wanted me to make a move. And when I realized that, as the steam cleared, I understood that I absolutely couldn’t. Fuck I wanted to – my dreams of the prior night had been nearly violent in their sexual heat – graphic and lustful. My body, surging with the workout and the heat of this moment, desperately wanted to pounce.
And to be clear: I hadn’t shot in a week – not since our fight. Nearly getting the shit kicked out of you can have a negative impact on your sexual urges. And beyond that – I hadn’t had a good piece of ass all summer. Half the time I was too afraid to leave the k** alone at the house. The other half the time my tricks wanted to come to my place. I was convenient in that respect – had a well-known reputation in ‘the community’ of living alone and letting frustrated husbands sneak away from their stilted gay marriages – usually guys in relationships who had lied their way to the ‘top’ – if you get my meaning. But, given the k**’s raging homophobia, I wasn’t gonna have loud, banging man-sex just down the hall from the guestroom. So I was fucking hard up – it was the longest spell I’d had without boy-pussy in years – and right about now that hardness was hurting. Bad.
But no. But no.
Fucking no.
This was his ask to make, not my ass to take. He had to come home to himself. Once he did, if he invited me into that home, it would all be on him. If I pushed – even a little – he could weasel out of himself and his truth.
So – I just laughed, gently.
“k**,” I said, shaking my head. “That ain’t gonna happen.”
His head dropped, disappointed now, rubbing the towel on his smooth, muscled frame. He was holding back the tears.
“I’m gonna make you some breakfast,” I said, opening the door.
“Drew? Um – Mr. James,” he said, looking back up.
“Yeah, son?”
“You really think – you know – the beard?”
I looked at him. He was asking, honestly, one man to another – and underneath it he was asking how best to present himself for … men? Me?
“I think so, Ryan,” I said. “I think you got a face under all that hair that deserves to be seen. I think you’re hiding that face – for some reason – and I think that’s a shame.”
Then I headed out the door. But on a whim, I turned, sticking my head back in. He was still looking in my direction, breathing hard now –
“There’s clippers in my bathroom. Under the sink. Razors, too. Worst case scenario, son, you’ll hate it and grow it all back in a month – or less. Comes in quick for you, doesn’t it son.”
“Yessir. It does.”
“Just like me,” I said, rubbing my three-day beard that was just this side of getting shaggy. “Nothin’ to lose, then, is there?”
I headed down to fix breakfast, head swirling but now just putting one foot in front of another. One day at a time, you know? One hour. One minute. One second.
As I mixed the pancake batter, I heard the clippers starting.
I smiled.
Poor little fucker, I thought. Everything was falling into place.
Fucking duh, you know? I mean – fucking duh.
Bacon was up and I was waiting to scramble when he padded into the kitchen, wet towel around his stupidly thin waist. And – I mean – he wasn’t thin in the waist, per se – he just looked that way, given his ass and his thighs and his bigfuckingthick upper body. Fuck.
But his face – fuck fuck fuckity fuck his face.
I nearly blew it by saying, “You look pretty, son.” But … I didn’t. That’s what I thought, though. And he did. Look pretty. He had a boy-face. Not all boy – but I saw why he bearded it. He was aging himself. Trying to turn himself into the man that he wasn’t – trying to reject the boy who insisted on being something other than what the man thought he should be.
“Nice,” was all I said, but he caught my reaction and he smiled. Honest-to-fucking-God it was the first smile I’d seen off of him all summer. And fuck if it didn’t light up the kitchen.
“You think so?” he asked, eyes flashing, rubbing his face. It was red from the removal.
“Yeah - ,” I said, turning away before my hunger showed – emotional and physical. The k** was getting to me. Bad.
“You moisturize it?”
“Mmm – no?” he said, like I’d asked him a question in French.
“Watch the bacon,” I said, pouring the eggs into the other pan. “Stir the eggs. I’ll be right back.”
I bounded up the stairs, then rifled through my fag drawer, finding a high-end tube that would help with the rawness.
Back down in the kitchen I pushed him aside from the stove, where he looked, honestly, lost. I handed him the tube. “Put this on – now. It will help with the itching later. And when it starts itching, put on more.”
He smelled it – probably thinking it would be flowery or something.
“Trust me, Ry,” I said. “Fags are really good at skin-care. You don’t put that shit on you’ll be in pain this afternoon.”
He squeezed some out, rubbing it on his chin, then all over his face. He shone. I was gone.
“Drink your juice. It’ll help.”
He did.
“I thought we weren’t supposed to say that word,” he said, not able to hide the fact the he said ‘we’.
“You aren’t. I can.”
“But –“ then he stopped himself.
“But, what?”
“Nevermind,” he whispered, looking down at his empty plate.
Breakfast was up. I heaped his plate with eggs and bacon. Pancakes on a second plate. Had a smaller portion for myself. Had to watch the weight. It was getting harder and harder to keep off.
“Eat the bacon first. That’ll help, too. Lots of butter on the toast. That’ll help. Fat helps hangovers.”
He listened, soaking up the lessons of a practiced alcoholic, then inhaled the three pieces of bacon, using half a stick of butter for the toast and his pancakes. He even dolloped some on the eggs which looked fucking delicious. My stomach growled.
“You gonna eat, too,” he said, hearing it, actually expressing empathy for the first time all summer.
“Ya,” was all I said, digging in. I’d been watching him – watching him like a father watches a son.
Like I said … it was getting dangerous up in here.
He had a second helping of everything. I had finished and was cleaning the dishes, back turned to him. I heard it before I saw it – finished scrubbing the pan, then turned off the faucet, letting the sound of his crying jag fill the room. He had lost control now – completely. His body, physically sated by food, had returned to the emotional wreck that he was, and in the morning light, denuded, he wept. His towel had dropped open. He was naked, in more ways than one.
There tears were the tears of a k** who’d dropped the ball – lost the game – fucked up his life.
I just stood, letting it happen. I’m not sure why I chose not to approach him, though it’s probably because I would have been compelled to hold him – comfort him.
Love him.
But – like I said, I had decided that was the wrong approach, no matter how wrong my distance from him felt now.
I think he expected the comfort, too. Lost, waiting for a daddy – any daddy – to hold him, he looked up, snot falling from his face, eyes red, mouth huffing.
“Why – why – why –“ he sobbed, barely able to speak. “Why – why’m I such a loser?” he cried, pushing his plate away, head dropping into his arms, sobbing now. Really fucking going at it. It was almost comical if it wasn’t so painful. “WhythefuckamIsuchaloser,” he cried, repeating himself, again and again.
I just stood, arms crossed, holding back my own tears – seeing so much of myself in him, manifested differently, of course, but the core was me – the same young man, the same confusion, the same self-hatred.
When he looked up again, the tears subsiding just a bit, seeking an answer to the question he had posed, I tossed him a dishrag, which he used to wipe his face, blow his snot. The k** could sure produce some fluids when he needed to – I’ll give that to him.
“Son –“ I said, making sure he heard me and was ready to hear me. “It’s because you hate yourself, Ryan. You gotta learn to love yourself. Once you do that – you won’t be such a loser. In fact, if you can figure out a way to love yourself – you can be an incredible fucking man. I see it in you – we all do. Even your fucked up old pops, though he can be a stubborn motherfucker. But … anyway. You can.”
“I don’t want to be this way,” he said, just this side of a tantrum, pounding the table.
“Why not, Ryan? Why the fuck not?”
“It’s wrong. It’s fucking wrong.”
“Who says it’s wrong, son?”
“My mom!” he cried, the tears coming again.
“Oh that bitch,” I said, not able to catch my words as they shot out of my mouth.
“Fuck you – “ he said, pounding the table. “Don’t talk about my her that way.”
He got up, muscles flared, doing the “mom” thing. But he wasn’t scaring me – not in my own home, not naked – not crying like a baby.
“Ryan – “ I said, not moving a muscle, but deepening my voice so he understood who was in charge of this little mid-day rodeo – “I am sorry I disrespected your mother. I apologize for that. Sincerely. But son – she’s … k**, that religious bullshit is just that. It’s bullshit.”
I’m not gonna get into his mom. Just paint your own picture. Suffice it to say her religious conversion while Burt was in Kuwait was the beginning of the end. And when she sued for sole custody, it nearly killed him. By then I’d gotten my shit together and I borrowed against my home to get him a lawyer. The bitch had over-reached, which seemed to be a trait she passed down to her son. Her ‘sect’ was just this side of a cult – snake charmers and speaking in tongues and home-schooling and shit like that. Hell – she even accused her husband of being gay, which was laughable. Poor fucker had to call two girlfriends to the stand, but they were good ladies, and laid it on the line that he was a good man.
When asked why they didn’t marry him, they responded in kind. “I wanted to,” I remember one of them saying. “But he’d been burned once,” she said, eyes narrowing at the uptight cunt with permed hair that was clutching her bible at the defendant’s table. “He wasn’t gonna be burned twice.”
It helped that it was a small town. Pretty conservative – but even conservatives have their limits and when the judge made his ruling, and she stood, screaming Old Testament passages at him, everyone knew that the right decision had been made.
The court found that she was a crazy bitch – sorry, that she was “providing an unstable home-life”, and granted Burt full custody. She got once-a-week visitation rights (Sunday), with thirty days in the summer for her revival camp, and that was that.
But clearly, her damage to Ryan had been profound.
Suffice it to say that her relationship with me was … um … non-existent. I tend to keep people who spit on me out of my life.
“The bible says it’s a sin – it says it’s an a-a-a-“ he was still crying periodically, so the words came out stilted. “An a-abomination.”
My own rage was rising, but I held it in check. Mostly I was able to do that by being outrageously pissed at myself that I hadn’t seen this train coming down the track like one thousand fucking miles away. I mean – Jesus – how fucking dumb could I be?
I approached him cautiously, sitting on the other side of the table, taking a submissive posture, so he could back down on the ‘don’t-fuck-with-my-mother’ shit and we could talk about … this shit.
“Sit down, son. I’m sorry I disrespected her. I truly am.”
He sat, muscling up, even though he looked foolish doing so in his birthday suit, swabbing his face with the dishrag rag.
“You ever read the Bible, son?”
That caught him.
“I mean – some – we used to – in the summer –“
“The whole thing. Not some. Not the sections picked out for you by other people – but the whole thing.”
“No,” he said, sullenly, incomprehensibly holding on to the one thing that kept him from his truth and his happiness.
“You ever read the Sermon on the Mount? ‘Judge not, lest you be judged?’”
“Heard of it.”
“Read it?”
“No.”
I got up, heading to the den. You can’t be a good twelve-stepper without a fucking bible, and I’d done my share of Christianism while getting sober. It was the Sermon on the Mount that helped me consider the possibility of a higher power. At least figure out a way to live my life.
“Listen,” I said, sitting back down. I was quiet. Trying to project strength and love. Authority.
“Judge not, that ye be not judged. For with what judgment ye judge, ye shall be judged: and with what measure ye mete, it shall be measured to you again. And this, Ryan: Beware of false prophets, which come to you in sheep’s clothing, but inwardly they are ravening wolves. Ye shall know them by their fruits.”
He was looking at me, inquisitive.
“If you want to believe your mother’s version of this book, you can. Or, you can do your own reading, and figure out what it means to you. Being a man, son – that means thinking for yourself. That’s what I believe anyway. Your dad, too. Arnie. Especially Arnie.” That last seemed to catch him. Compel him.
“Do you believe in God?” he asked suddenly.
“Um … I do. Yeah. I do. I mean – it shifts. But yeah – higher power. I believe in a higher power.”
He just nodded.
“Do you?” I asked.
“Um – I think so. I mean – it scares me to think that there isn’t one.”
“Me, too,” I said, honestly. “Do you believe God would make something that He didn’t intend to make? Make something wrong?”
“No. But mom says that’s Satan in us – that when there’s something wrong in us, like the bible says, then it’s Satan doing that, not God.”
“Well – they have an answer for everything, don’t they?”
“I mean – yeah. They do,” he said, making a realization.
“Everything they want to justify they can justify – and that includes hate, Ryan. But none of Christ’s teachings are about hate – they’re about love. We are who we are, son – who God made us, if you believe in that – and I do, mostly. Though my God doesn’t go around making people something that they’re not supposed to be, or get worried about where we put our cocks – as long as we treat each other with respect. Love. You know – and passion. It’s a gift, son, who we are. A gift, not a curse. I believe that. The God I believe in gives gifts unconditionally – like you. You’re a gift – most recently a pretty fucking hard gift, to be brutally honest – but a gift nonetheless. Look at you, son. Your eyes – all bright. Strong. Handsome. You’re a gift, Ryan, not a curse.”
I stood up, letting that sit there, clearing his plates, then pouring more juice.
“Keep drinking. It will help –“
“I – I feel better,” he said, but accepting another pour.
“Is there a thank-you in there, Ryan?” I asked, prodding him.
“Yessir – thank you – I mean. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome,” I said, finishing the dishes.
“I mean it,” he said, forcefully. “You really been a good person to me. Thank you.”
“We all got our crosses to bear, k**,” I said, smiling at him. He looked confused. So I moved to him, tussling his head. “You could lighten up a bit, k**. It might help you. Stop fighting yourself and let yourself go. You might find fun in that – joy, too. Could help you feel better about yourself.”
“I can’t remember ever feeling good about myself, Mr. James,” he said, looking up at me.
That hit me like a ton of bricks.
“Well then – “ I said, trying to figure out a way to confront that, manage it – fathom it. “Maybe that’s what you should work on then, son. I been there – it’s no way to be. Your father taught me that. Saved my life, too, when he did.”
He just kept looking at me, seemingly overwhelmed. Then he rose, grabbing me, pushing himself into my body, clutching like a baby, but needful like a man – so much desire and youth and innocence and pain wrapped up in his muscles.
I held him forcefully, but withheld my sex – pushing it down, forcing it into an iron box at the bottom of my being. I tried to be a man for him, not a sex object.
“Please,” he said, grinding lewdly now, hard. I pushed him away and – now that I got a good close look at it – I was impressed. It wasn’t a massive cock, but the k** showed hot when hard. Just above average, just this side of thick. Taking in the whole picture – his boyish urgency – it suited him well.
“I –“ he said, but I cut him off.
“Not now, Ryan. Now is not the time.”
“But –“
“Ya gotta trust me, son. Please trust me. This once.”
“I wanna – “ he cried, covering himself. “I wanna be with you. How do I be with you?”
“You ask, son. You just ask. But not when you’re hungover – not when you’re all fucked up emotionally – not when you’re … a mess. And k** – it’s okay to be a mess. Fuck, I been in worse shape than you were last night – far worse than you are this morning. But I know enough to know you ain’t thinking clearly – you’re thinking with your cock.”
He shrunk at that.
I batted away his hands, grabbing it, hard, like a man does. “And son – this is a nice fucking cock. A nice big piece of meat that any man should be proud to swing. Fuck Angie – that dude was pissed at you and he had a right to be pissed. But what he said was wrong – is wrong. You got a nice cock, Ryan. It’s time to stop hating it. It’s time to start loving it – and start listening to what the fuck it’s trying to tell ya, ‘kay?”
Then I picked up the towel from his chair and snapped it at him, perfectly twinging the tip of that red raging thing – and the k** nearly knocked over the table, he jumped so hard, yelped so loud.
“Fuck,” he cried, about to get mad again, but I was laughing, having fun with him, imagining what it would be like to have youth like his around me, constantly, to care for – play with. Wrestle.
Love.
“What the fuck, son – gonna get dressed or what?” I said, chasing his ass up the stairs, snapping it.
He turned at the top, smiling huge, bigger smile than I ever seen him produce, blinding really, so much weight had been unloaded from him.
“Fucker,” he said, trying to grab me, but missing as I moved past him, grabbing at his junk, playfully, showing my appreciation for it – for him.
“You bet I am, k**,” I barked, laughing. “You bet I am.”
I slammed the door to my room, closing him out, catching my breath – reeling in emotion and desire.
“Get dressed, k**.” I yelled at him, and ripped off my clothes, pushing on some jeans and a shirt that showed off my morning work-out. I looked at myself in the mirror, working the hair like I was about to go on a date.
“Fuck,” I whispered to myself. My phone vibrated. I looked at it. It was Burt. I shut it off. Couldn’t think about him now. Could only think about Ryan.
When I emerged from my bedroom and stalked down the hall he was standing at his bed, naked, lost in thought.
“Going shopping. You wanna come,” I said, expecting a yes.
He turned – looking at me, eyes pure for the first time I could remember.
“No. I mean – no Sir. Gonna stay here. Work out. Need to work out – that okay?”
“That’s fine, son. That’s just fine.”
“Need to work out,” was all he said again, vacant, looking at some point in the distance – maybe some place where he actually stood – trying to figure out a way to get there. Then he grabbed at his wallet, pulling out a hundred bucks or so, handing it to me.
“On me, k**,” I said, moving away.
“No,” he responded, with … force. With adulthood. A new voice. The voice of a … man?
“Please, Mr. James. Please,” he said, walking up to me, still naked, but standing taller now. “And can you get us some rib-eyes? For tonight. They’re my favorite.”
I nodded. It was hard to focus with him standing there. “And, can we grill ‘em?” he asked, eyes clear. “And … can you teach me how? To do that – to grill stuff?”
I nodded again, trying to take his bills, and avoid his gaze. But his hand held mine in the cash exchange, hard, gripping it. I had to look up and when I did I realized he was looking for my own desire – my own need – trying to determine it. See if it existed. I couldn’t hide it from him, standing there like that – beginning to find his purity.
I couldn’t. So I let him feel my heat – imposed my frame on him just a little – relaxed into my hunt, so to speak. My jeans shifted lower, my cock enlarged. He saw it. Goose-flesh emerged on his arms. His breathing quickened.
“Have a good work out, son. I had a monster of one this morning. Helped clear my head.”
“Could we work out together – sometime – Drew?” he asked, not quite plaintively, but almost.
“Sure, k**. I’d like that. You could probably teach me a few things,” I said.
He still held my hand. Wouldn’t let go.
“Maybe,” he said. “But, I think you could teach me some stuff, too.”
He had hardened again. But there was no more shame in his display. If anything, there was pride and it wasn’t false pride – that bullshit swagger that he’d displayed all summer. This was … different. Truthful.
I grabbed his wrist with my other hand, holding it, and then pulled away from him with intention.
“Have a good work out, son,” I repeated. “It will help clear your head – and in here, too,” I said, pushing my fist into his chest. Then I turned and split, heading down the stairs. I was on auto-pilot now. It felt dangerous, how a felt. But life-changing, too. I gorged on the thick summer air, getting into the cab my truck.
Suddenly I wanted to get a dog.
Start a family …
I was fucked.
End of Part Two
I woke up early the next morning, as I usually do. I knew the k** would sleep late. On weekends, he never rose before noon and this morning he’d have a helluva hangover. Fuck – I felt like I had a hangover, too, and all I had was too many fucking Cokes. There were more texts from his dad. He was starting to ask about Labor Day weekend, which was coming up. That also happened to be the anniversary of me getting sober, so he was hinting about a visit.
I texted back, abruptly: “Touch and go, Burt. It’s been a rough week. Give me the weekend. We’ll see.”
Then I tossed the phone on the bed, leaving it behind. I didn’t want to deal with the k**’s dad this morning.
I went for a run to clear my head, but that didn’t work. Did a work out in the gym I’d set up downstairs. The k** had left it a mess, like he usually did, which pissed me off. I had to give credit where it was due, though: the fucker worked out like a b**st.
Now, as I pumped the steal, I could finally understand why: all those fucking muscles hiding all those fucking secrets.
At least a couple of hours went by. It took that long to get my cock under control. The dreams of the prior night had been lucid and intense: decidedly sexual. The exertion helped focus my energy elsewhere. I hadn’t worked out this hard in a while and it felt good, all that sweat.
At around 11:00 I came up from the basement, still uncertain how to approach this whole fucking mess and a little uncertain of myself, me being who I am when it comes to younger guys with muscles. And need.
And cherry.
I shook that out of my head and proceeded upstairs, using the adrenaline and testosterone to my advantage. Figured it was time to wake the bull … or, more aptly, the boy.
He didn’t take kindly to it like I knew he wouldn’t.
“Fuck,” he said, blinking, as I pulled back the bedsheets.
“Rise and shine, junior,” I said, grabbing his feet.
“Dammit – fuck –“ he said, resisting.
“As your dad once said to me, Ryan, the only way out of this hangover is through it. Drink this.”
“Not thirsty.”
“Sure ya are – drink it.”
It was water – a tall glass – but it would help in a little while. I was standing over him – towering, I would say, still sweating, pumped up quite a bit, I might add. The k** caught it – caught my vibe. He tried to not look – tried to make sure I didn’t catch him looking – but I did. I wondered how many times I’d missed his practiced, furtive glances. Such a fucking idiot I was, the realizations continuing to come. And such a fucking asshole I was – right about now – knowing what I was doing, even though I pretended that my care of him this morning was purely paternal. That’s what I told myself even as my jock strained with sweat and substance.
“Gonna puke,” he said.
So I put down the water and hauled his ass up, dragging him quickly into the smaller upstairs bathroom. It was closer, I told myself, and it was, but it was small, so the space would be confined. Close quarters. He wretched in the toilet while I squatted next to him, rubbing his back, showing him some tenderness. The sobs were coming back now. My hand wandered lower and he didn’t flinch at all.
Not that – just to be clear – puke gets me going. It fucking doesn’t. But taking care of the k**, he being all wound up and such – and he being in a position I was all too familiar with - well, you know…
Then, into the shower. Under the hot water I pulled down his shorts, which he tried to resist – “No!” he blurted, but it was too late.
“I don’t care, k**. Seen it all.”
He covered himself, but I handed him the soap. Of course it was hard. Of course it was. It being morning and all – but the k** had just puked and I don’t ever recall maintaining an erection during a vomit episode. Things were adding up.
“You watching me?” he asked, back turned.
“Yeah k** – I’m right here.”
“So – you are.”
“Son,” I said, earnest now. “I’m here because you’re hurtin’, not because you’re naked, okay? Also – you may puke again and I don’t want that shit on the tile, which I laid myself.”
Finally he turned, defiant, looking at me with uncommonly hard eyes – wet though they were. He cleaned his crack while he did so, spending more than a little time back there while he stared at me.
But I wasn’t looking down. I was looking right at his face.
“You should lose the beard, son. You’d look better without all that hair on your face. Anyway, you keep the rest of yourself shaved,” I said, glancing at his bare, rigid cock, giving just the hint of a smirk. “You may as well shave your face.”
He dropped the soap. And no – that’s not a fucking metaphor. He actually dropped it, turned all red, too.
His throat caught again as his cock twitched, and he turned back into the shower. And now I did take a long hard look at that perfect fucking ass. And guess what? It was a perfect fucking ass. I had to stop myself from making my tiger-sound. The muscle was tight, the glutes rode stupidly high. The soap made it all fucking porny.
And then he pushed it back, consciously or not, to get it rinsed, and my cock surged and I needed to get out of there, the steam was making me sweat again – think bad thoughts.
He gargled from the shower-head, drank some, too.
“That’ll help,” I said, looking down, trying to figure out how to exit. Then he turned it off. The silence descending.
“Towel please,” he squeaked, seeming vulnerable now, which was even more dangerous, but I handed it to him, and he wiped down, barely. It wasn’t a tease at all. It was just him – naked. Hung over. Trying to figure out who he was.
I was about to split – had my hand on the door knob – when he turned, looking at me.
“Thought you were gonna join me, Mr. James,” he said. There was both a hint of accusation and a sense of wistfulness. I realized, then, that he knew enough of the game (or had instincts about the game) that he wanted me to make a move. And when I realized that, as the steam cleared, I understood that I absolutely couldn’t. Fuck I wanted to – my dreams of the prior night had been nearly violent in their sexual heat – graphic and lustful. My body, surging with the workout and the heat of this moment, desperately wanted to pounce.
And to be clear: I hadn’t shot in a week – not since our fight. Nearly getting the shit kicked out of you can have a negative impact on your sexual urges. And beyond that – I hadn’t had a good piece of ass all summer. Half the time I was too afraid to leave the k** alone at the house. The other half the time my tricks wanted to come to my place. I was convenient in that respect – had a well-known reputation in ‘the community’ of living alone and letting frustrated husbands sneak away from their stilted gay marriages – usually guys in relationships who had lied their way to the ‘top’ – if you get my meaning. But, given the k**’s raging homophobia, I wasn’t gonna have loud, banging man-sex just down the hall from the guestroom. So I was fucking hard up – it was the longest spell I’d had without boy-pussy in years – and right about now that hardness was hurting. Bad.
But no. But no.
Fucking no.
This was his ask to make, not my ass to take. He had to come home to himself. Once he did, if he invited me into that home, it would all be on him. If I pushed – even a little – he could weasel out of himself and his truth.
So – I just laughed, gently.
“k**,” I said, shaking my head. “That ain’t gonna happen.”
His head dropped, disappointed now, rubbing the towel on his smooth, muscled frame. He was holding back the tears.
“I’m gonna make you some breakfast,” I said, opening the door.
“Drew? Um – Mr. James,” he said, looking back up.
“Yeah, son?”
“You really think – you know – the beard?”
I looked at him. He was asking, honestly, one man to another – and underneath it he was asking how best to present himself for … men? Me?
“I think so, Ryan,” I said. “I think you got a face under all that hair that deserves to be seen. I think you’re hiding that face – for some reason – and I think that’s a shame.”
Then I headed out the door. But on a whim, I turned, sticking my head back in. He was still looking in my direction, breathing hard now –
“There’s clippers in my bathroom. Under the sink. Razors, too. Worst case scenario, son, you’ll hate it and grow it all back in a month – or less. Comes in quick for you, doesn’t it son.”
“Yessir. It does.”
“Just like me,” I said, rubbing my three-day beard that was just this side of getting shaggy. “Nothin’ to lose, then, is there?”
I headed down to fix breakfast, head swirling but now just putting one foot in front of another. One day at a time, you know? One hour. One minute. One second.
As I mixed the pancake batter, I heard the clippers starting.
I smiled.
Poor little fucker, I thought. Everything was falling into place.
Fucking duh, you know? I mean – fucking duh.
Bacon was up and I was waiting to scramble when he padded into the kitchen, wet towel around his stupidly thin waist. And – I mean – he wasn’t thin in the waist, per se – he just looked that way, given his ass and his thighs and his bigfuckingthick upper body. Fuck.
But his face – fuck fuck fuckity fuck his face.
I nearly blew it by saying, “You look pretty, son.” But … I didn’t. That’s what I thought, though. And he did. Look pretty. He had a boy-face. Not all boy – but I saw why he bearded it. He was aging himself. Trying to turn himself into the man that he wasn’t – trying to reject the boy who insisted on being something other than what the man thought he should be.
“Nice,” was all I said, but he caught my reaction and he smiled. Honest-to-fucking-God it was the first smile I’d seen off of him all summer. And fuck if it didn’t light up the kitchen.
“You think so?” he asked, eyes flashing, rubbing his face. It was red from the removal.
“Yeah - ,” I said, turning away before my hunger showed – emotional and physical. The k** was getting to me. Bad.
“You moisturize it?”
“Mmm – no?” he said, like I’d asked him a question in French.
“Watch the bacon,” I said, pouring the eggs into the other pan. “Stir the eggs. I’ll be right back.”
I bounded up the stairs, then rifled through my fag drawer, finding a high-end tube that would help with the rawness.
Back down in the kitchen I pushed him aside from the stove, where he looked, honestly, lost. I handed him the tube. “Put this on – now. It will help with the itching later. And when it starts itching, put on more.”
He smelled it – probably thinking it would be flowery or something.
“Trust me, Ry,” I said. “Fags are really good at skin-care. You don’t put that shit on you’ll be in pain this afternoon.”
He squeezed some out, rubbing it on his chin, then all over his face. He shone. I was gone.
“Drink your juice. It’ll help.”
He did.
“I thought we weren’t supposed to say that word,” he said, not able to hide the fact the he said ‘we’.
“You aren’t. I can.”
“But –“ then he stopped himself.
“But, what?”
“Nevermind,” he whispered, looking down at his empty plate.
Breakfast was up. I heaped his plate with eggs and bacon. Pancakes on a second plate. Had a smaller portion for myself. Had to watch the weight. It was getting harder and harder to keep off.
“Eat the bacon first. That’ll help, too. Lots of butter on the toast. That’ll help. Fat helps hangovers.”
He listened, soaking up the lessons of a practiced alcoholic, then inhaled the three pieces of bacon, using half a stick of butter for the toast and his pancakes. He even dolloped some on the eggs which looked fucking delicious. My stomach growled.
“You gonna eat, too,” he said, hearing it, actually expressing empathy for the first time all summer.
“Ya,” was all I said, digging in. I’d been watching him – watching him like a father watches a son.
Like I said … it was getting dangerous up in here.
He had a second helping of everything. I had finished and was cleaning the dishes, back turned to him. I heard it before I saw it – finished scrubbing the pan, then turned off the faucet, letting the sound of his crying jag fill the room. He had lost control now – completely. His body, physically sated by food, had returned to the emotional wreck that he was, and in the morning light, denuded, he wept. His towel had dropped open. He was naked, in more ways than one.
There tears were the tears of a k** who’d dropped the ball – lost the game – fucked up his life.
I just stood, letting it happen. I’m not sure why I chose not to approach him, though it’s probably because I would have been compelled to hold him – comfort him.
Love him.
But – like I said, I had decided that was the wrong approach, no matter how wrong my distance from him felt now.
I think he expected the comfort, too. Lost, waiting for a daddy – any daddy – to hold him, he looked up, snot falling from his face, eyes red, mouth huffing.
“Why – why – why –“ he sobbed, barely able to speak. “Why – why’m I such a loser?” he cried, pushing his plate away, head dropping into his arms, sobbing now. Really fucking going at it. It was almost comical if it wasn’t so painful. “WhythefuckamIsuchaloser,” he cried, repeating himself, again and again.
I just stood, arms crossed, holding back my own tears – seeing so much of myself in him, manifested differently, of course, but the core was me – the same young man, the same confusion, the same self-hatred.
When he looked up again, the tears subsiding just a bit, seeking an answer to the question he had posed, I tossed him a dishrag, which he used to wipe his face, blow his snot. The k** could sure produce some fluids when he needed to – I’ll give that to him.
“Son –“ I said, making sure he heard me and was ready to hear me. “It’s because you hate yourself, Ryan. You gotta learn to love yourself. Once you do that – you won’t be such a loser. In fact, if you can figure out a way to love yourself – you can be an incredible fucking man. I see it in you – we all do. Even your fucked up old pops, though he can be a stubborn motherfucker. But … anyway. You can.”
“I don’t want to be this way,” he said, just this side of a tantrum, pounding the table.
“Why not, Ryan? Why the fuck not?”
“It’s wrong. It’s fucking wrong.”
“Who says it’s wrong, son?”
“My mom!” he cried, the tears coming again.
“Oh that bitch,” I said, not able to catch my words as they shot out of my mouth.
“Fuck you – “ he said, pounding the table. “Don’t talk about my her that way.”
He got up, muscles flared, doing the “mom” thing. But he wasn’t scaring me – not in my own home, not naked – not crying like a baby.
“Ryan – “ I said, not moving a muscle, but deepening my voice so he understood who was in charge of this little mid-day rodeo – “I am sorry I disrespected your mother. I apologize for that. Sincerely. But son – she’s … k**, that religious bullshit is just that. It’s bullshit.”
I’m not gonna get into his mom. Just paint your own picture. Suffice it to say her religious conversion while Burt was in Kuwait was the beginning of the end. And when she sued for sole custody, it nearly killed him. By then I’d gotten my shit together and I borrowed against my home to get him a lawyer. The bitch had over-reached, which seemed to be a trait she passed down to her son. Her ‘sect’ was just this side of a cult – snake charmers and speaking in tongues and home-schooling and shit like that. Hell – she even accused her husband of being gay, which was laughable. Poor fucker had to call two girlfriends to the stand, but they were good ladies, and laid it on the line that he was a good man.
When asked why they didn’t marry him, they responded in kind. “I wanted to,” I remember one of them saying. “But he’d been burned once,” she said, eyes narrowing at the uptight cunt with permed hair that was clutching her bible at the defendant’s table. “He wasn’t gonna be burned twice.”
It helped that it was a small town. Pretty conservative – but even conservatives have their limits and when the judge made his ruling, and she stood, screaming Old Testament passages at him, everyone knew that the right decision had been made.
The court found that she was a crazy bitch – sorry, that she was “providing an unstable home-life”, and granted Burt full custody. She got once-a-week visitation rights (Sunday), with thirty days in the summer for her revival camp, and that was that.
But clearly, her damage to Ryan had been profound.
Suffice it to say that her relationship with me was … um … non-existent. I tend to keep people who spit on me out of my life.
“The bible says it’s a sin – it says it’s an a-a-a-“ he was still crying periodically, so the words came out stilted. “An a-abomination.”
My own rage was rising, but I held it in check. Mostly I was able to do that by being outrageously pissed at myself that I hadn’t seen this train coming down the track like one thousand fucking miles away. I mean – Jesus – how fucking dumb could I be?
I approached him cautiously, sitting on the other side of the table, taking a submissive posture, so he could back down on the ‘don’t-fuck-with-my-mother’ shit and we could talk about … this shit.
“Sit down, son. I’m sorry I disrespected her. I truly am.”
He sat, muscling up, even though he looked foolish doing so in his birthday suit, swabbing his face with the dishrag rag.
“You ever read the Bible, son?”
That caught him.
“I mean – some – we used to – in the summer –“
“The whole thing. Not some. Not the sections picked out for you by other people – but the whole thing.”
“No,” he said, sullenly, incomprehensibly holding on to the one thing that kept him from his truth and his happiness.
“You ever read the Sermon on the Mount? ‘Judge not, lest you be judged?’”
“Heard of it.”
“Read it?”
“No.”
I got up, heading to the den. You can’t be a good twelve-stepper without a fucking bible, and I’d done my share of Christianism while getting sober. It was the Sermon on the Mount that helped me consider the possibility of a higher power. At least figure out a way to live my life.
“Listen,” I said, sitting back down. I was quiet. Trying to project strength and love. Authority.
“Judge not, that ye be not judged. For with what judgment ye judge, ye shall be judged: and with what measure ye mete, it shall be measured to you again. And this, Ryan: Beware of false prophets, which come to you in sheep’s clothing, but inwardly they are ravening wolves. Ye shall know them by their fruits.”
He was looking at me, inquisitive.
“If you want to believe your mother’s version of this book, you can. Or, you can do your own reading, and figure out what it means to you. Being a man, son – that means thinking for yourself. That’s what I believe anyway. Your dad, too. Arnie. Especially Arnie.” That last seemed to catch him. Compel him.
“Do you believe in God?” he asked suddenly.
“Um … I do. Yeah. I do. I mean – it shifts. But yeah – higher power. I believe in a higher power.”
He just nodded.
“Do you?” I asked.
“Um – I think so. I mean – it scares me to think that there isn’t one.”
“Me, too,” I said, honestly. “Do you believe God would make something that He didn’t intend to make? Make something wrong?”
“No. But mom says that’s Satan in us – that when there’s something wrong in us, like the bible says, then it’s Satan doing that, not God.”
“Well – they have an answer for everything, don’t they?”
“I mean – yeah. They do,” he said, making a realization.
“Everything they want to justify they can justify – and that includes hate, Ryan. But none of Christ’s teachings are about hate – they’re about love. We are who we are, son – who God made us, if you believe in that – and I do, mostly. Though my God doesn’t go around making people something that they’re not supposed to be, or get worried about where we put our cocks – as long as we treat each other with respect. Love. You know – and passion. It’s a gift, son, who we are. A gift, not a curse. I believe that. The God I believe in gives gifts unconditionally – like you. You’re a gift – most recently a pretty fucking hard gift, to be brutally honest – but a gift nonetheless. Look at you, son. Your eyes – all bright. Strong. Handsome. You’re a gift, Ryan, not a curse.”
I stood up, letting that sit there, clearing his plates, then pouring more juice.
“Keep drinking. It will help –“
“I – I feel better,” he said, but accepting another pour.
“Is there a thank-you in there, Ryan?” I asked, prodding him.
“Yessir – thank you – I mean. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome,” I said, finishing the dishes.
“I mean it,” he said, forcefully. “You really been a good person to me. Thank you.”
“We all got our crosses to bear, k**,” I said, smiling at him. He looked confused. So I moved to him, tussling his head. “You could lighten up a bit, k**. It might help you. Stop fighting yourself and let yourself go. You might find fun in that – joy, too. Could help you feel better about yourself.”
“I can’t remember ever feeling good about myself, Mr. James,” he said, looking up at me.
That hit me like a ton of bricks.
“Well then – “ I said, trying to figure out a way to confront that, manage it – fathom it. “Maybe that’s what you should work on then, son. I been there – it’s no way to be. Your father taught me that. Saved my life, too, when he did.”
He just kept looking at me, seemingly overwhelmed. Then he rose, grabbing me, pushing himself into my body, clutching like a baby, but needful like a man – so much desire and youth and innocence and pain wrapped up in his muscles.
I held him forcefully, but withheld my sex – pushing it down, forcing it into an iron box at the bottom of my being. I tried to be a man for him, not a sex object.
“Please,” he said, grinding lewdly now, hard. I pushed him away and – now that I got a good close look at it – I was impressed. It wasn’t a massive cock, but the k** showed hot when hard. Just above average, just this side of thick. Taking in the whole picture – his boyish urgency – it suited him well.
“I –“ he said, but I cut him off.
“Not now, Ryan. Now is not the time.”
“But –“
“Ya gotta trust me, son. Please trust me. This once.”
“I wanna – “ he cried, covering himself. “I wanna be with you. How do I be with you?”
“You ask, son. You just ask. But not when you’re hungover – not when you’re all fucked up emotionally – not when you’re … a mess. And k** – it’s okay to be a mess. Fuck, I been in worse shape than you were last night – far worse than you are this morning. But I know enough to know you ain’t thinking clearly – you’re thinking with your cock.”
He shrunk at that.
I batted away his hands, grabbing it, hard, like a man does. “And son – this is a nice fucking cock. A nice big piece of meat that any man should be proud to swing. Fuck Angie – that dude was pissed at you and he had a right to be pissed. But what he said was wrong – is wrong. You got a nice cock, Ryan. It’s time to stop hating it. It’s time to start loving it – and start listening to what the fuck it’s trying to tell ya, ‘kay?”
Then I picked up the towel from his chair and snapped it at him, perfectly twinging the tip of that red raging thing – and the k** nearly knocked over the table, he jumped so hard, yelped so loud.
“Fuck,” he cried, about to get mad again, but I was laughing, having fun with him, imagining what it would be like to have youth like his around me, constantly, to care for – play with. Wrestle.
Love.
“What the fuck, son – gonna get dressed or what?” I said, chasing his ass up the stairs, snapping it.
He turned at the top, smiling huge, bigger smile than I ever seen him produce, blinding really, so much weight had been unloaded from him.
“Fucker,” he said, trying to grab me, but missing as I moved past him, grabbing at his junk, playfully, showing my appreciation for it – for him.
“You bet I am, k**,” I barked, laughing. “You bet I am.”
I slammed the door to my room, closing him out, catching my breath – reeling in emotion and desire.
“Get dressed, k**.” I yelled at him, and ripped off my clothes, pushing on some jeans and a shirt that showed off my morning work-out. I looked at myself in the mirror, working the hair like I was about to go on a date.
“Fuck,” I whispered to myself. My phone vibrated. I looked at it. It was Burt. I shut it off. Couldn’t think about him now. Could only think about Ryan.
When I emerged from my bedroom and stalked down the hall he was standing at his bed, naked, lost in thought.
“Going shopping. You wanna come,” I said, expecting a yes.
He turned – looking at me, eyes pure for the first time I could remember.
“No. I mean – no Sir. Gonna stay here. Work out. Need to work out – that okay?”
“That’s fine, son. That’s just fine.”
“Need to work out,” was all he said again, vacant, looking at some point in the distance – maybe some place where he actually stood – trying to figure out a way to get there. Then he grabbed at his wallet, pulling out a hundred bucks or so, handing it to me.
“On me, k**,” I said, moving away.
“No,” he responded, with … force. With adulthood. A new voice. The voice of a … man?
“Please, Mr. James. Please,” he said, walking up to me, still naked, but standing taller now. “And can you get us some rib-eyes? For tonight. They’re my favorite.”
I nodded. It was hard to focus with him standing there. “And, can we grill ‘em?” he asked, eyes clear. “And … can you teach me how? To do that – to grill stuff?”
I nodded again, trying to take his bills, and avoid his gaze. But his hand held mine in the cash exchange, hard, gripping it. I had to look up and when I did I realized he was looking for my own desire – my own need – trying to determine it. See if it existed. I couldn’t hide it from him, standing there like that – beginning to find his purity.
I couldn’t. So I let him feel my heat – imposed my frame on him just a little – relaxed into my hunt, so to speak. My jeans shifted lower, my cock enlarged. He saw it. Goose-flesh emerged on his arms. His breathing quickened.
“Have a good work out, son. I had a monster of one this morning. Helped clear my head.”
“Could we work out together – sometime – Drew?” he asked, not quite plaintively, but almost.
“Sure, k**. I’d like that. You could probably teach me a few things,” I said.
He still held my hand. Wouldn’t let go.
“Maybe,” he said. “But, I think you could teach me some stuff, too.”
He had hardened again. But there was no more shame in his display. If anything, there was pride and it wasn’t false pride – that bullshit swagger that he’d displayed all summer. This was … different. Truthful.
I grabbed his wrist with my other hand, holding it, and then pulled away from him with intention.
“Have a good work out, son,” I repeated. “It will help clear your head – and in here, too,” I said, pushing my fist into his chest. Then I turned and split, heading down the stairs. I was on auto-pilot now. It felt dangerous, how a felt. But life-changing, too. I gorged on the thick summer air, getting into the cab my truck.
Suddenly I wanted to get a dog.
Start a family …
I was fucked.
End of Part Two
Latisha
- 31.08.2021
- 30
- 0
