Daddy’s Boy
photo courtesy of feastoffools
Outside the room I can hear his Daddy stumbling about like a drunken god, heaving himself up from the couch where he’d been sleeping when Daddy’s Boy and I snuck back into the house half an hour ago. God is always fear and that is why Daddy is a god, at least to Daddy’s Boy, and I am Daddy’s Boy’s boy-toy so I suckle up the fear from Daddy’s Boy’s still-rigid cock. Somehow he stays hard though I can feel the fear thrumming through him, making the muscles of his stomach washboard-taut and twitching his uncircumcised cock in my mouth. I drink it up and dream of Daddy out there, Daddy stumbling drunk to the boy’s door and pressing his flushed cheek to the traitorous wood, which even now communicates the febrile rhythm of our sucking to Daddy’s waiting ear. I suckle in the fear and hate and anger as Daddy stands there, wondering what to do, wanting to break down the door and scream and pummel and beat us both to blue-black bloody bruises. As Daddy stands there swollen in his pants, wondering if he shouldn’t just let boys be just boys and meander tipsily to his bedroom, where his callous wife waits in tightly tucked sheets and wonders if he’ll ever come.
If he’ll ever come, if he’ll ever come, if he’ll ever come…
* * *
Daddy’s Boy had asked me if I wanted to go to his yoga class with him. I’d never practiced yoga before, but had always been interested, so I said yes. Of course, I also knew that it would be our first chance to be something more than friends, to do more than furtively touch each other’s hands in his car in the upper parking lot, hoping to God that no one would walk by just then, and discover us that simply.
That afternoon he drove us straight to his house, only minutes away from the high school. He came to a crunching stop in the gravel outside the house and we stepped out. It took only seconds for the Doberman to come tearing out of nowhere, hot with the smell of a strange human being in its nostrils, teeth glaring in the awful Sierra Nevada light. Seeing it come at me I knew somehow that I was wrong–wrong for being here, wrong for wanting to do what I knew we would do at some point tonight–and I turned back to the car door, hands fumbling to get back inside its safety. But I was too slow; the dog reached me and bounded forward, front paws planted on my shaking thighs and I clenched my eyes as tight-shut as they would go, knowing that any moment I’d feel the clean, sharp pain of teeth breaking skin, the hot dizzying spray of my blood dewing my face and throat. And I did feel something wet and warm spreading across my face, but it took me a moment to open my eyes and realize that the dog was merely licking me, excited by the arrival of some new potential playmate. I laughed and clasped my hands around its neck, digging in my nails to give a long, hard scratch.
“Wow,” Daddy’s Boy said, “he never likes new people.” It was the closest thing to a benediction I’d ever received.
* * *
We walked in the house and the first thing I saw was Daddy, stretched out on the couch. The TV blared but his face was pointed toward the ceiling and a soft rumbling snore poured from his chest. Daddy’s Boy and I tiptoed past, heading directly for the Boy’s room. Once there, the Boy said, “God. That’s my Dad. He’s permanently disabled, so he pretty much lays on the couch all day and drinks himself to sleep. Still, we’ve gotta be careful. If he finds out about me and you…” And as he spoke he fell back on the crazed rainbow of quilts covering his bed, and took a carved wooden box from the bedside table.
Before then I’d only had a hit or two sucked from a crumpled, pierced beer can. But I thanked God I’d finally gotten inhaling down as he lit the joint for me and I sucked in the sticky, earthen smoke. It had been so long since I’d toked that I was high immediately, the smoke billowing up and into the million crenulations of my brain like water soaking into a desert plain. I coughed, and a flush of blood suffused my face, pressing the green smoke even deeper inside me. I almost felt like my entire body was pulsing.
He reached for the stereo and put the Cure’s “Staring at the Sea” on and I smiled widely, stupidly, a kid given his favorite toy.
“Now, give me a hit,” he coaxed and I handed the joint back to him, mumbling an embarrassed “sorry.”
“Don’t be.” He grinned as he said it, sucking in a fugitive tongue of smoke. He inhaled deeply, three times, making me feel like an amateur. And then he extended one hand toward me, his voice tight with held breath, “Come here.”
I took his hand and let him pull me gently up to the bed. And then his lips closed over mine, probing tongue coaxing my lips to part, and he exhaled, slowly. A silver wash of smoke filtered down over my tongue, cooled by its time inside his body. This time I didn’t cough at all. I pulled back, exhaling through my nose and smiled.
photo courtesy of yoyoparlo
“I like breathing your breath,” I said.
* * *
Finally it was almost seven and we rose to leave.
“I didn’t bring anything appropriate to wear,” I said, glancing down at my black slacks and smiling slyly up at him.
“It’s okay,” he said, shucking a pair of sweatpants out from a laundry basket that didn’t seem to be clean, “You can wear these.”
I smiled again, thinking it’d be nice to wear his dirty pants, to be surrounded by his musky scent as I stretched and breathed deeply in the calm rhythms of yoga. We headed out the door and Daddy’s Boy told Daddy we were leaving, though Daddy only grunted sleepily from the twisted mound of blankets he had become on the dingy white couch.
In the car we slipped and slid down the rain-rutted road, sparse shards of gravel pinging in the wheel wells as we descended the slope. About halfway to the paved county road that lead out to the highway he veered suddenly off the road, and the grind of gravel was replaced by the crunch of tall golden grass beneath the wheels. For a moment I thought he must be taking some weird back-country shortcut, but then he cut the engine, coming to a stop in the middle of an oak-hung nowhere. The night now sprawls above in a seminal profusion of iridescent glints, and I think as I sometimes do that the creation might really have been just one of God’s onanisms, an ecstatic burst of jizz splayed out across the velvet texture of space.
Daddy’s Boy turned on the radio, slipping in the same Cure tape he’d played before, and as if cued-up, “Lovecats” began to bubble through the cab. He dug around in his pocket and pulled out another joint, this time offering it to me to light. The twisted end burned like a tiny hot star cupped in my hands and my exhalation billowed out against the windows, smoke-streamers pressing themselves desperately against the cold glass like moths longing for escape into the black boundlessness. Our mingled body heat was already beginning to fog the glass, human warmth marking itself against the entropic cold of all that vast insubstance of night. The earth turned naked beneath us, revealed to the immense emptiness of things. The song was halfway over and I was already stoned by the time I though to ask, “We’re not going to yoga class, are we?”
He only laughed, and puffed again on the joint.
photo courtesy of SLIM K
We sat there silently stoning ourselves for what seemed like hours, the tape unspooling itself and turning over, playing out again and again as we both struggled to think of something to say. The silence seemed to bare the superficiality of our friendship like waves scouring the sand to reveal the gelid corpses of jellyfish boiling in the sun. Finally I turned to him and took the joint from his hand, stubbing it out in the ashtray. I lifted my palms to cup his face in my hands, as if I were about to pray, only to be interrupted by the proximity of this other flesh. This other heat, this other breath, so close beside me I was breathing his exhalations and he was breathing mine, and I brought my mouth to his and pried those thin scar-tissue lips open with my tongue. I dove into him, tongue first, delving a path for the rest of me, breathing myself into him, wishing I could reduce all this gross tissue to something subtle as breath, as heat, and simply pour myself down his throat.
But we are men, and the flesh does not so easily relinquish its hold upon us, so I found my hand sliding down his t-shirted chest, stroking its swells and its dips, caressing his breath to quicken like a conductor urging his violinists to greater speeds with a mere flourish of his wand. My fingers rippled over the folds of his abs and found the waistband of his pants.
Undoing a man’s pants is nothing like unbinding a woman’s bra. My fingers have done it a thousand times, they know the trick of it like my lungs know breath, and in an eye-blink his pants were open, the fly whispered down, and I was raking my fingers through the black thicket of his hair. I stretched my fingers out and down the shaft of him, and I could feel the tiny, thread-like veins pulsing already. I curled my fingers around him and the heat of it was impossible, the sensation of him swelling in my hand alien and yet as familiar as my own growth. I could feel myself swelling in my slacks, my cock like a blind worm lusting to break from the concealment of humid black earth, but he made no move to free me. It was as if he was telling me that this was my move, that he had done all the work up ’til now and it was my turn.
My fingers travelled up his swelling length, a sculptor’s hands stroking pan-pipes from viscid clay, and finally I reached his tip. It was only then that I realized that he was uncut, the extra puckered folds of flesh there strange and silky under my fingertips. I pressed one finger against this closed lip, fingering it like a woman’s damp hole, and I could feel the slickness of his pre-cum seeping up to slick my touch. My palm spread out over the tip, sliding the flesh back and over the swollen glans as I continued kissing him, smiling against his mouth as I felt the shudder undulating through his whole body. I stroked him for a moment, letting the rhythm of hand and tongue join and merge. He moaned against my mouth and I drowned the sound with my lips. And then I pulled back from him, looking down to see his cock swollen between my fingers, my hand wrapped around his base as I have seen my hands wrapped around myself countless times. There was a tenderness to this touch, like that which one can only lavish on oneself, and for a moment it was as if I was touching myself. My cock thrilled with a hot, electric flush and I bent my head to take him in my mouth. My thin pink lips parted to slide over his head in fleshy echo of his foreskin, my tongue swirled wetly over its impossible softness. His dick was like a strange fruit capable of skinning and re-skinning itself in my hands, and I slid the foreskin up and over him each time my mouth lifted off his cock, knowing how delicious it must feel. I myself am cut, and for a moment I felt saddened by this unremembered mutilation, this excision that had made me in some way different than him. I slid my mouth over him completely, and I could feel his fingers snarling themselves in my long curls, and I could feel the pulse and shudder of his cock vibrating in my mouth. I pulled back and slid over him again and again and again… Waiting for cum. Waiting for cum. Waiting for him to cum.
He never did manage it, though he said that me giving him head was the most incredible thing he’d ever felt. Nor did either of us manage it later that night, when we lay in a tangled 69 on the blanket he’d spread out for me to sleep on, not wanting Daddy to barge in at 3 a.m. and find us arm in arm in his bed, furiously sucking each other off.
It was then that I imagined Daddy outside his Boy’s door, ear pressed to the traitorous wood, stroking himself in time to the liquid sound of us fucking, even as the rage grew pounding, nauseating in his skull. I almost longed for Daddy to come barging in then. To find his Boy and I sweatily entangled, gasping and moaning over the rigid lengths of each other’s cocks. I had no idea what I would do–in fact, all the fictions I imagined blurred steamily together, so that at once I was standing up for Daddy’s Boy, screaming at Daddy to get out, taking a brick-fisted punch to the temple as Daddy tore towards his Boy, going down on my knees before Daddy with a fist wrapped firm around Daddy’s Boy’s cock.
But these are the things we never say, and Daddy never did come storming in like the enraged god Daddy’s Boy and I imagined him to be. Instead Daddy’s Boy and I fell asleep in separate beds, Daddy’s Boy’s voice soft and regretful as I finally stroked myself to a lonely convulsion, saying “I should’ve just let you fuck me.”
