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Subject: Common Law – Ch. 2 Common Law by RJ This piece of fiction is about a teenager who finds himself co-parenting his son with his father. If you are offended by themes of incest and adult/youth, do not read. If you have any questions or comments about this piece, want to know about any of my other works, or just want to reach out, please don’t hesitate to email me. A list of my works, including links and descriptions, can be found here: https://bit.ly/2S5IYDI. If you would like to be added to a mailing list for this story (or all stories) and receive emails about any updates, let me know. Please also consider donating to Nifty if you fty/donate.html ~ Chapter 2 ~ Once finished with my quick, erotic trip down Memory Lane, I wipe the cum off of my stomach and dress into my normal at-home attire: a pair of underwear and a t-shirt. The boxers are new, though. I only recently added boxers to my collection just last week — only because I bought them completely by accident. I’m a boxer briefs guy, just like my daddy, but I didn’t read the label closely enough until I was in check-out. By then, I was too lazy to trek all the way across Walmart and exchange them. Turns out boxers aren’t horrible, though. I much prefer that snug feeling of boxer briefs, but I don’t totally mind how they feel like I’m going commando. But I know how Dad feels about them: he *hates* them. And sure enough, when I head downstairs and out to the back porch where he and Mason are grilling, he looks over at me and rolls his eyes. “What?” I ask, amused. “I just don’t understand why you bought those,” he says, eyeing my choice of underwear with clear disdain. “There’s no support.” “That’s the point,” I tell him, smirking as I watch him slap a few patties on the grill. “It feels freeing. Like I’m not even wearing underwear.” “You’re gonna jack up all your nerve endings,” he warns me. I laugh. “That’s a myth, Dad,” I say before patting his arm and putting on a playful voice. “Why can’t you just be happy for me in my time of comfort?” He just stares at the grill, saying “I taught you better than this.” I chuckle softly, knowing that he’s joking — even if it’s hard to tell sometimes. When I came home with a pack of boxers last week, he stared at me and said “You’re no son of mine” in such a deadpan voice that I burst out laughing hard enough to choke on my saliva. “*I* like your undies, Daddy,” Mason chimes in. I smile. “Thank you, baby,” I say, leaning over to kiss his cheek. Mason’s clearly pleased with himself for saying the right thing, and he smiles as he sucks on his thumb. “Someone gets it,” I continue to tease. In all honesty, I’m choosing boxers for two reasons only: one, I love seeing how irrationally uncomfortable my father gets about it, and two, it’s not yet laundry day. The whole reason I went out to buy underwear in the first place was because I threw out a bunch of old ones and only a few boxer briefs survived. But Dad doesn’t know that. He just thinks I’m making changes. “Whatever,” Dad says, nudging me away with his elbow, but I swear I see a tiny smile on his lips. “Take your comfy ass inside and grab me a beer.” I smirk a little before turning around. Just as I’m starting to walk away, I feel something slap my ass. I jump in surprise, turning around to see Dad gripping the spatula he just spanked me with, hitting me with a tiny grin as Mason howls with laughter. I blush a bit, smiling but simultaneously annoyed that his playful little moment sent a shiver right to my cock. I head inside with a little grin on my face, feeling somewhat flustered as I make my way into the kitchen and grab a beer for my dad. As I’m popping the cap off, I get distracted by a knock on the door. I furrow my brows, but then I realize only one person would be knocking on the kitchen entrance rather than the front door. “It’s open,” I shout. A second later, Jack enters the kitchen with his overweight, hulking, imposing form. I smile at him. Jack is a big guy with a crazy long salt-and-pepper beard. He’s tall and wide and arguably looks a lot like a classic Santa considering he has a kind, slightly sunburned face that always has a smile slapped onto it. But he’s a tough dude. If his sheer presence doesn’t threaten you, his loyalty will. All the guys in Dad’s biker gang are practically family — Jack, especially. “Hey Jack,” I say, tossing the bottle cap in the trash. “Hey bud!” he says in his cheery voice, shutting the door behind him. “How’s the knee?” “Not bad, not bad,” he says, giving it a pat. He injured himself on a ride a week ago. He narrowly avoided getting hit by a reckless driver, but busted his knee up in the process. Luckily he also avoided permanent damage — or worse, death. “How are things with you?” he asks me. “How’s the little elf?” I laugh. Because he looks so much like Santa, once it’s around Christmas time, Mason takes to referring to Jack as such. In return, Mason has been christened as one of Santa’s elves. “He’s good,” I tell him. “He’s *very* excited about some art project at school so get ready for an earful.” Jack chuckles, holding his stomach when he does. “Long as he doesn’t try and tug my beard off again, I’ll be fine.” I smile. Mason’s fascinated with Jack’s facial hair, though the last time Jack was over, Mason got a bit overzealous. “I told him to be gentle next time,” I tell him. “Hey, you want a beer?” “Fuck yeah,” Jack says with a nod. As I’m grabbing a second beer from the fridge, Mason comes running into the kitchen, naked as the day he came. “Daddyyy,” he cries, “we need buns!” When he gets into the kitchen, though, he stops and gasps upon noticing that we have company. Then he smiles broadly. “Jack!” Jack laughs. “Hey squirt!” Mason runs up to him and makes a motion to reach for his beard. Jack (with a bit of a struggle) bends down to let the boy touch it. Mason giggles as he runs his fingers through that lengthy beard, petting it for a few moments before finding himself satisfied for now. “We’re making burgers and hot dogs,” he says matter-of-factly as Jack stands up straight again. “Oh yeah?” Jack asks. “You got some for me?” “Yeah!” Mason jumps up a little, full of excitement. “Do you want cheese?” “If you’re offering,” Jack says, clearly amused. Mason starts slowly listing off the cheeses that we have. “We have cheddar, America, peppy jack–” Then he stops himself as something dawns on him. “You should have that one! Your name is in it!” Jack laughs. “Sounds good to me, buddy!” My eyes are focused on Mason. I watched as he pawed at his groin while he listed off the cheeses. It’s been a problem at school, apparently. I got a call from his kindergarten teacher just a few weeks ago saying how Mason spent a little too much time with his hand in his pants. I felt so fucking embarrassed. I promised I’d talk it over with my son, and ever since, it’s been better. It was a hard conversation to have, mostly because he didn’t even realize he was doing it so much — but I managed to convince him to try to only do it in the privacy of our home, and thankfully, I haven’t gotten a call from his teacher since. But now he’s doing it again, right in front of Jack. It’s difficult because he’s still honoring our agreement: we’re in the house, and I never chastise him for it when it’s just him, me, and Dad. But now we have a guest. “Mason, don’t do that,” I tell him. He looks at me. “What?” “With your hand.” He looks down at his hand fondling his genitals before he looks back up at me, frustrated. “But you said in the house!” “Not in front of other people,” I clarify, glancing towards Jack. “That’s not fair!” Mason cries out, immediately looking upset. I sigh. He hates being told that he’s doing something wrong. He practically goes right to tears. “You do it in front of me!” he adds, employing the “If you can do it, why can’t I?” logic so plainly that I’m almost stunned for a moment. I blush a bit, and I notice Jack smirking slightly as he watches the two of us. This is what’s difficult about sharing a room with Mason: the lack of privacy. Often, if I’m too lazy or comfortable to move to a different room, I’ll just bust out a quick nut with Mason still in the room — usually when I woke up horny in the middle of the night or early in the morning. Even though he’s typically a heavy sleeper, sometimes he’ll wake up, and sometimes he’ll see. That’s just what happens when you share a bed. It didn’t help that things between Dad and myself had changed somewhat. Even though we never talked about that night we shared together, I did notice a difference after. Masturbation became more of a casual thing. We never did it together, but he stopped closing his door when he’d jerk off in his room, or he’d continue conversation with me even when he caught me in the middle of stroking one out, or we’d joke about the subject more often (even if we didn’t necessarily *talk* about it). I think over the years, the more and more we’d see each other doing it, the less “taboo” the act felt, and the less worried we were about being caught. That unspoken understanding made the decision to pleasure myself in front of my son whenever the mood struck feel natural — so I suppose Mason was bound to pick up on some things from the get-go. “Not when we have guests,” I mutter to myself before shooing him towards the stairs. “Go put some clothes on.” “But–” “*Now*,” I say firmly. Mason huffs and throws the tiniest tantrum, stomping towards the stairs and making sure his feet hit each step as heavily as possible. I sigh before laughing nervously, turning to Jack. “Sorry about that,” I say, finally handing him his beer. Jack holds his hands up, smiling. “All good,” he says before taking a quick swig from the bottle. “Where’s your dad?” “Out back, grilling,” I tell him, pointing towards the back of the house. Jack meanders his way through the kitchen towards the deck, and I grab the buns from the cabinet as well as random condiments from the fridge. I stuff it all on top of a stack of plates and, after taking Dad’s beer, I carry everything outside. I set the picnic table while Jack and Dad chat discreetly by the grill — probably the whole reason Jack came over in the first place. They only pause their conversation when I come over to hand Dad his beer, and he thanks me before taking a long, drawn-out sip. I don’t really pay attention to what they’re talking about, though, because I’m thinking about Mason. I (surprisingly enough) love being a father, but it’s moments like these that make raising a kid tough. It’s still hard to know how to explain more difficult concepts to a child. How is he supposed to understand? Soon, Mason comes back out to join the three of us, donning his favorite outfit: one’s of my t-shirts (or, sometimes, one of my dad’s). This shirt in particular Dad passed down to me. It’s a shirt he’s had since his own high school days, and it’s old as hell but still cozy and comfortable. The shirt, a simple tee with a Japanese symbol that none of us know how to translate, hangs on Mason like a dress, completely oversized. I think he just likes feeling small. “Nice shirt,” Dad says with a smirk, eyeing Mason. Mason grins a bit before he turns around, pulls the hem up, and reveals that he’s wearing nothing underneath. He wiggles his bare bottom, which Jack gets a kick out of, laughing animatedly. “Mason!” I say threateningly, and the boy giggles as I chase him into the yard. At first, I wanted to get a hold of him to chastise him — but for what? He’s just having a bit of fun. So the intention of discipline morphs into a game of tag around the backyard, and we both laugh and yell and tag each other back and forth until I lose my footing and fall onto my side into the grass. Mason immediately pounces on top of me and I chuckle while we playfully wrestle each other. “Gotcha!” Mason says, tickling me with his little fingers. “Oh, you’re in trouble now,” I say, wrapping my arms tightly around him and rolling us around. Mason screams with glee, trying to squirm out of my grip. Eventually, after a few minutes of total physical exertion, I rest on my back in the grass, winded. “Alright, I surrender,” I pant. Mason, who’s straddling my torso, giggles. “I wiiin,” he says, poking my nose. “Proud of yourself, huh?” I ask, smiling. He nods, beaming. I rest my hands on his hips, stroking each one with my thumb as I look up at him. “Listen, Mace. I didn’t mean to yell at you earlier,” I tell him. “That wasn’t your fault.” “It’s okay, Daddy,” he says sweetly, clearly not harboring any negative feelings. But he puts on his inquisitive face. “Why can’t I do it?” “It’s a private thing, remember? There’s a time and a place for that. We talked about this.” “But we’re at home,” he says, not seeing what’s wrong. “I know, baby, but if we have other people here who aren’t family…” “Then I can’t do it?” he offers. I nod, smiling. “At least try not to.” “Okay,” he says, blushing slightly. “Is it… a bad thing?” I sigh. I’m sure he’s feeling that way considering how often his teacher chastised him for it, and how I did tonight. “It’s… It’s not *bad*, really. It’s more like… a disruption,” I explain further, using the word his kindergarten teacher chose. Mason just looks confused, though, leaning over me and resting his elbows on my chest. “Like, it gets in the way. Don’t you feel like it gets in the way?” Mason shrugs, rocking his legs back and forth. “Not really.” I smile slightly. This is a strange conversation to have, because I’m sure he doesn’t understand why he can’t touch his own body. I know he just likes the feeling. What’s wrong with that, right? He’s always liked it. I get a flashback to one of his baths, where I did my normal routine and washed his crotch with my palm and fingers. When I pulled away, Mason grabbed himself and said “Wash me here again, Daddy.” Between that and him catching his daddy playing with himself on occasion, I should have expected this behavior to come about. “Between you and me, it’s natural,” I say with a near-whisper, “to want to touch yourself down there. Some people just don’t understand. *Especially* girls.” Mason smiles at the tone I’m using, like I’m letting him in on a secret. Now I *really* have his attention. “Like Miss Janet?” “Just like Miss Janet,” I say with a smile. “But your Papa and I, we understand. Family understands.” “Family understands,” he repeats slowly, like he’s testing the words. “Make sense?” He bites his lip cutely before nodding a little. “Good boy.” I stroke his hair before saying “Give daddy a kiss.” He giggles slightly before sliding up my body to peck my lips gently. We stay in the grass for a few more minutes until the burgers are done. Dad calls out for us and we head back to the deck, joining Dad and Jack at the table. Dad sits at the head of the table, and I sit on his left side opposite Jack. I figured Mason would join me, but he stands next to Jack and tugs on the big man’s shirt. “Can I sit in your lap?” he asks. Jack smiles. “Sure, kid,” he says, sitting back a little. Mason climbs up and sits on one of Jack’s thighs, clearly happy. I fix him a hot dog şişli travesti with some ketchup, and as soon as I slide the plate in front of him, he digs in. “How old are you again, elfie?” “Five!” Mason says with his mouth completely full. “Don’t talk with your mouth full, Mason,” I remind him, not wanting him to choke. “Five?” Jack says with a laugh. “Goddamn, time flies!” “He’ll be six in a few months,” I say with a smile. “Growin’ up so fast!” Jack chuckles. “I still remember when Mitch was that young,” he comments, and I smile slightly. Dad and Jack have been buddies for quite a while. I think they met when Dad worked as a mechanic fresh out of high school, if I remember correctly. “And just like little Mason, he was obsessed with his daddy.” I blush a little, glancing at Dad, and even he smiles a bit while he eyes his own plate and chews his food. I know he remembers clearly how attached I was to him. I essentially used his leg as a crutch. There rarely was a time where I was okay with not being in physical contact with him. At the very least, he had to be in my sights. I’m sure I was a nuisance, but he never really complains about it. Hell, he never really *talks* about it, either. “Papa says I look like Daddy when he was little,” Mason comments before going in for another bite. Jack looks at me curiously and then back at Mason before saying “Shit, you’re right!” “Language,” Dad warns, but in a softer, non-paternal voice reserved for his friends. “Right, sorry,” Jack says. “But seriously, spitting images! If I’m remembering right.” Dad does say that pretty often, and from the pictures I’ve seen of me as a kid, I’d have to agree. Mason looks a *lot* like me. It seems the only thing Michelle gave him were her eyes, a calm hazel color. Even then, we could easily pass for brothers with a big age gap. Maybe that’s why Dad likes Mason so much: the boy reminds him so much of my younger self, and helping me raise Mason is like reliving (what he considers to be) the best years of fatherhood. “Should I whip out the photo book?” Dad asks. “Photo book?” I say in confusion. What photo book? But Mason shouts “Yeah!!!” and my question goes unanswered. Two minutes later, Dad returns with what looks to be a photo album tucked under his arm. I don’t recognize this one, so I’m intrigued as he pushes aside his plate and sets the album on the table. To get a better look, Mason quickly slides off of Jack’s lap and switches over to his Papa Joel’s, barely able to contain his excitement. “Be *very* careful with this,” Dad warns Mason. “Don’t touch anything, alright? Only look.” “Okie,” Mason chirps, eager to see some photographs. Hell, even *I’m* eager. I slide closer to Dad to get a better angle as he lifts the leather jacket and exposes the first three-by-three array of Polaroids tucked into clear, plastic sleeves. From the very first page, I get an impression of what this photo book is about: me. As he flips through the next few pages and comments on a couple pictures, my impression is confirmed. All the pictures are of me, or of me and him, at various stages of my life, all random moments: birthday parties, traveling, Halloween, being silly at home… I recognize only a couple of pictures, which are undoubtedly scans of these originals, but the vast majority are totally foreign to me. It’s strange seeing pictures of myself that I’ve never seen before — especially because, if not for the eyes, Dad could tell me they’re all of Mason and I’d be none the wiser. “I didn’t know you had all these,” I say as Dad flips to the fifth page. He shrugs. “Every once in a while I’ll take it out of the safe,” he says. “I don’t want them ruined.” I smile at him, even though he’s not looking at me. It makes me swoon seeing how much he cherishes this book. Often he’ll nudge Mason’s hand out of the way if the boy’s fingers stray too closely to the book. He flips each page with tenderness, as if it’s fragile. Picturing him unlocking his safe in his office not to do work but to reminisce about the two of us makes me want to kiss him… hard. But at the same time, why hasn’t he shown me these before? I’ve always found it strange how he rarely talks about the past — like he’s hoarding onto all these memories. Suddenly, Mason giggles at a picture and points to it. “You’re nakey, Papa,” he says. My eyes immediately go to where Mason is pointing. It’s a picture of Dad and me lying together. Both of us are nude, and the toddler version of me is lying on top of him, face pressed against his chest. It’s bright out, and we’re clearly lying on a blanket on a beach, resting in the sun. He’s got a hand on my bottom, loosely cupping it as if to keep me from sliding off of him. His cock is out-and-about between my legs, catching rays and looking thick and delicious. Dad chuckles slightly. “Oh yeah. Remember that little beach in Milford?” he asks Jack. “With all the parrots?” Jack’s eyes go wide with recognition. “Oh God, yeah! We used to go there all the time!” Mason peers up at Dad. “Parrots?” he asks curiously. “Yeah, tons of ’em,” Jack says before Dad can answer. “Some exotic animals van crashed decades ago and a few parrots got free. Now they’re all over the beaches around there.” I laugh slightly, picturing parrots making a home out of New England. “Was it a nude beach?” I ask. “Well… technically, no,” Dad says, and Jack laughs, “but everyone did it anyway.” Dad smiles slightly at the picture. “I think Tim took this picture. You remember Tim?” he asks Jack. Jack nods. “Yeah,” he says grimly. “Heard he’s not doing so hot…” But I tune out a bit, still glancing at the picture and trying to envision the rest of the day. I imagine Dad and I taking a small road trip down to the beaches with this “Tim” person, the three of us stripping down as soon as we touch sand. Is it secluded? It must be somewhat away from normal civilization for everyone to get away with being nude. I don’t know what it is about this picture, but it’s making me hot. There’s nothing sexual about it. In fact, it’s tender, and sweet, and a little funny. But fuck, it’s making me hard. I have to reach down under the table to adjust myself a bit. “I wanna have pictures too,” Mason says after we look through a few more pages. Jack speaks up. “I might have an old Polaroid camera still in my attic.” “Yeah? What about film?” Dad asks. “Hard to come by now.” “True, true. I’ll have to check.” I smile slightly. It’d be nice if Jack manages to find a camera and a decent amount of film. If I have one fault as a father, it’s that I haven’t taken nearly enough pictures of my son. I took plenty when he was first born, but that hardly counts — newborn babies are so unspecific. I need to capture the beauty *my* Mason exudes, and if I can do it with the same medium Dad did me, it’d be the perfect way to come full-circle. We all eat our fill (or otherwise overindulge) and stay outside until it starts to get dark. Then, it’s time to clean up. Jack polishes off his third beer before taking his leave, and after Dad starts to help bring things in, I tell him to relax. It’s my turn to handle dishes. He just shrugs and heads into the living room with Mason, leaving me to play maid. It takes me a while to wash all the dishes and clean up around the kitchen, and even after that, I end up doing chores around the rest of the house. Decluttering the kitchen leads to me cleaning up the bathroom after I return a random bottle of Ibuprofen from the dining table to the medicine cabinet. Then, after replacing the towels and tossing used ones in my hamper, I end up picking up around the bedroom too. By the time I finish tackling all those rooms, it’s nearly ten P.M. I head into the living room with the intention of picking up a bit, and when I see my dad and my son on the couch, I almost laugh out loud. The TV’s on quietly, but Dad and Mason are completely knocked out. Mason’s resting on top of his Papa, thumb loosely in his mouth and small body draped over my father’s. If only we had a Polaroid camera. For now, I settle for snapping a quick picture on my phone, even if Mason’s bare ass is in the photo. I lean forward and try to quietly wake Mason so that I can get him ready for bed. “Hey buddy,” I whisper, holding his upper back and shaking him lightly. “Let’s get you to bed.” Mason stirs a bit before his eyes flutter open, and he smiles sleepily at me. He starts to yawn and stretch, ultimately waking Dad from his own mini-slumber. “Hmm, wuzzit?” Dad mutters, stretching as well. I laugh. “It’s bedtime,” I say. “Mm,” Dad says in confirmation, nodding slightly as he sighs. “Say goodnight, Mason.” Mason sits up on top of my Dad before leaning forward and giving him a quick kiss on the lips. “G’night, Papa.” “G’night, kiddo,” Dad says, patting his butt playfully. Mason giggles before turning to me, and after extending his arms towards me, I pick him up and hold him in one arm. Before I can leave the room, Mason asks me a question. “Why don’t you kiss Papa?” I glance at Dad as he sits up and stretches. “Umm… Too old I guess,” I say. Mason gives me an annoyed look before saying “That’s dumb.” I laugh. “I agree,” I find myself saying. I’m surprised I said that out-loud, and I quickly add “C’mon, let’s get you to bed” before leaving the room even as I feel my dad’s eyes on me. It doesn’t take too long to get Mason to bed. I have him brush his teeth before tucking him in a bit, letting him just sleep in my shirt. He peers up at me sleepily after I give him a kiss on the forehead. “You’re not gonna sleep with me?” Mason asks, pouting. I smile. “I’ll be up in a bit, baby,” I tell him, playing with his hair a little. It never fails to make him smile. “I just wanna finish cleaning up a bit.” “Okie,” he says, satisfied with that. “Get some sleep,” I say, knowing that he’ll stay up waiting for me if I don’t tell him otherwise. “Don’t take forever, mister,” he warns me in his official-sounding voice. I laugh. “I won’t.” I lean over and peck his lips before standing up. “‘Night.” “Wait!!!” he cries, sitting up. “Where’s Pandy?” “Um… I think we left him in the living room,” I say, knowing Mason has a hard time sleeping on his own. Either I have to be there, or Pandy has to take my place. “I’ll go check.” I leave Mason alone for a minute, and sure enough, I find Pandy the Panda on the floor from when we played Doctor earlier. I pick the stuffed animal up and smile. I won this for Mason two years ago at the annual town fair. I randomly tried my luck at some darts and ended up popping every single balloon. Little Mason cheered so hard for me that I let him pick the prize, and he studied each available stuffed animal before pointing to the small panda in the corner. They’ve been best friends ever since. I return to the bedroom with Pandy in hand, smiling when Mason’s face lights up. He holds out his arms and scoops his panda bear from my grip, hugging him tight. “Please and thank you,” he says. I laugh. I’ve told him countless times that it’s just “Please” or “Thank you”, and I’ve tried to teach him how to know when to say which, but it never seems to stick. “You’re welcome, baby,” I say, leaning over and giving him a kiss on the cheek. “Give Pandy a kiss too,” he says, holding out his bear towards me. I smile and kiss Pandy’s cheek, and Mason giggles. “Pandy loves you too, Daddy.” “Too, huh?” I say with a smile. “You sayin’ you love me?” I give Mason a little tickle on his tummy. Mason squeals with laughter. “I love you lots and lots.” I smile softly, my heart gushing for my son. “Love you more, baby boy. Now to go sleep, alright?” He finally agrees and snuggles up to his stuffed animal as he closes his eyes. I pull the blanket over him before I turn to exit the bedroom with a grin on my face. God, I love that boy. He’s a total sweetheart, with such a tender spirit. I hope he retains that part of him as he grows up. I notice Dad standing in the doorway, beer in his hand. Was he watching? “Hey,” I say before ushering him away from the door so that I can close it. Dad smiles slightly, still partly leaning against the wall as I shut the door behind me. “You spoil that boy,” he says, lifting the beer to his lips. “Do I?” Dad nods as he swallows his sip. “Think he’s more affectionate than *you* were. And you were pretty damn affectionate.” “Don’t start complaining now,” I say with a slight grin. “I’m not complaining,” he says softly before staring at me. His eyes drift a little, but it’s dim enough in this hallway for me to not be able to tell exactly where his focus is going. “What made you stop?” he asks me suddenly. I blink. “Huh?” “What Mason said.” “Oh.” I feel my body tense up a bit. He’s talking about the kissing, isn’t he? “Um. I don’t know,” I tell him. “I think my friends thought it was weird.” Kids can make you feel all sorts of ways. They are particularly talented at making you feel like an outsider if you do something even mildly abnormal. “Huh,” he says, clearly contemplating something for a long moment. Then he smiles as he brings the beer to his lips again. “Thought I taught you better than to care about what other people think.” I feel my face getting hot. “Wouldn’t *you* think it’s weird?” “Not really,” he says after swallowing a sip. “Maybe.” Then he just shrugs. “Growin’ up sucks, doesn’t it?” I bite my lip a bit. “Kinda,” I say, swallowing thickly. There’s another long moment where we just stand there, looking at each other in silence. I wonder what he’s thinking, because all I’m thinking about is kissing him — and not with those innocent, father/son kisses he’s probably reminiscing about right now. I’m thinking about passionate, tongue-filled, ass-grabbing, body-hugging, sensually-sloppy kisses. I’m thinking about being as close as we can possibly be. But he clears his throat and pulls me out of my daydream. “I should get some work done,” he says. “Still have a ton of files to backlog. Can I borrow your laptop again?” “Yeah,” I tell him. He’s been using my laptop for reorganizing all his business files while he was filling out his taxes. Pretty sure it’s still in his office. “Cool. Thanks.” He looks me up and down briefly before cocking his head towards my bedroom door. “Not gonna head to bed?” I shrug. “Not yet. Was gonna clean up the living room quick,” I say — though that’s only partially true right now. “Alright. I’ll be in my office,” he says decidedly, already starting to turn around. “Hey, thanks for cleaning the house, by the way,” he adds as he walks away. “Sure thing,” I say, watching his form disappear down the hallway and into his office. Good thing he didn’t hug me. Otherwise I’d probably have to explain the hard-on forming in my underwear right now. Fuck. Horny again? I must be way more pent-up than I initially thought. I bite my lip a bit, knowing I want (or *need*) to jerk off again. The house computer is right downstairs, adjacent to the TV, terribly inviting. If he’s using my laptop, the family desktop is my only source of porn — and that’s what I need right now: graphic, man-on-man sex with sloppy, spit-filled (or, better yet, cum-filled) beylikdüzü travesti kissing. My cock is twitching already. I could pull something up on my phone, but I hate looking up porn that way, mostly because I like to have several videos queued up. Pop-ups are a total nuisance on mobile browsers too, but can easily be closed out of via desktop. As long as I keep the volume either off or pretty low, I can get away with a quick nut before I clean up and then join Mason. I head downstairs and plop myself down in that large high-back before logging into the computer. The last thing up was a computer game Mason was playing, and I “X” out of that before pulling up an incognito browser. Then, I get to work on hunting for porn. I pull up several different videos, one of them featuring a straight pussy-eating scene for when I’m in the mood to watch a hot guy go down on a girl. But that’s for later. My first pick is something more classic: two middle-aged businessmen on their supposed lunch break sneaking in some quick action. I skip the introductory plot and go right for the kissing — and I’m not disappointed. I bite my lip as I watch these two hunks grab at each other’s faces and arms and sides and asses while they lock lips. They push each other against the wall, tug on each other’s ties and suspenders, dive into each other’s mouths with their wet, eager tongues. Their breathy moans are sensational too. But what makes me really hard is when the camera zooms into their groins — both of them bulging and forming wet spots on the front before the camera pans up to a close-up of them making out. My cock throbs in my boxers, and I quickly fish it out from the fly before wrapping my fingers around it and stroking away. All the foreplay is pretty hot in this video. The kissing is erotic, the undressing is passionate and eager, and the blowjobs are deep and sloppy — just enough to get me horned up. Unfortunately, there’s no rimming in the video, and they skip right to fucking. I actually audibly groan when I see a condom wrapped around the top’s cock, and then I sigh, abandoning the video altogether. I need my porn raw, and with copious amounts of ass-eating. I switch over to the next video in my queue — the straight one. The whole video is just a seven-minute clip of a frat boy giving a girl head. I tug my boxers down a bit more since I don’t like stroking off through the fly, and once I’m in a more comfortable position, I lean back and press play. I don’t know what it is about watching a man use his mouth that gets me so hard. I must be orally fixated or something, but I can’t help it. It’s so hot watching his tongue slide between her lips, taste and explore. I slouch in my chair a bit more, moaning softly as I give myself slow strokes, transfixed by his movements. I can feel myself throb a bit, and when I glance down, I see a thick drop of precum oozing from the slit. I tap it with my finger, bring it to my mouth, and suck it off with a happy hum. Delicious as always. Then, I hear a voice behind me: “Hey Mitch, what’s your password?” My heart practically stops when I hear my dad’s voice. I slam my fingers into the space bar to pause the video right before attempting to tuck my boner away. Then I spin around in the leather chair, swallowing saliva and hoping the back of the chair is blocking the computer screen effectively enough. “What?” I ask, even though I heard him clearly. He just completely surprised me. I was so in the zone, too. “Your password,” he repeats. He’s holding my laptop in his arm and is pointing to the screen with his free hand. “I tried reinstalling the scanner, but I need the administrator password.” “Oh. It’s ‘Masonree007’, but two e’s instead of a y, and the e’s are threes, and the m is uppercase.” He blinks, clearly thinking my password is far too convoluted before coming closer and handing me the laptop. “Just type it in.” I clear my throat a bit, typing in the password to give him permission to install whatever software he needs. I try to do it quickly, but just as I’m hitting the “enter” button, he speaks up again. “Decided not to clean?” “What?” When I look up, I see that he’s looking right at the screen with a slight grin. Busted. “Oh. Um… Yeah,” I say. “Just… taking a break.” “Whatcha watching?” “Uhhh…” I gulp a bit. “Just some porn.” Even though masturbation is not as terribly awkward a topic in the house anymore, the subject of porn is still up for debate. I usually just use my laptop for porn, which means he doesn’t see what I’m looking at even if he catches me. Plus, the word “porn” just feels weird coming out of my mouth when I’m in front of my father. “Right,” he says, his tone implying that I’m stating the obvious. “It any good?” I lick my lips slightly. “Um, yeah, it’s pretty good,” I say. What an understatement that is, though. I always come back to this video. He leans over a bit to get a better look, and even I swivel around in my chair. The video is paused on a close-up of the guy’s tongue deep in her cunt, and I glance at Dad to gauge his reaction. But he’s not really looking at the still-shot. He’s looking at the name of the video. “‘College dude chows down on stepsister’s pussy’,” he reads. I blush, wincing. “Ignore the title.” “Stepsisters, huh?” he asks with a teasing grin. “I said ignore the title,” I say, pushing him away and laughing slightly. He chuckles. “Relax. There are worse things,” he says before eyeing the paused video a bit. “Looks pretty tame though.” “Tame?” “Would’ve thought you’d developed some weird fetish by now,” he says, and he looks at me and hits me with the tiniest of grins. I feel a weird sense of relief slowly spreading through my body the more we talk, and I find the situation humorous enough to laugh. Thank God I wasn’t playing something gay. “Maybe I’m just not in the mood for dogs tonight,” I joke. He rolls his eyes but can’t resist letting out a tiny laugh. “Funny,” he says sarcastically. “Wait wait wait,” I say, keeping this teasing dynamic going, “so does that mean *you* have weird fetishes?” “I’m a classic kind of guy,” he says, standing up straight and crossing his arms. “So no dogs?” He reaches over and hits the top of my head playfully, and I laugh. That’s his reaction whenever I’m “being smart”, as he calls it. “Someone’s gonna beat the shit out of you one day.” “Probably you,” I say with a smirk. “Hmm,” he says in slight confirmation before holding his hand out for the laptop. “You give me what I need yet?” “Yeah. You’re all set,” I say with a smile, handing him back the computer. “Thanks,” he says, and without another word about the porn, he turns and starts to walk away. I don’t know what provoked me to stop him, or where my impulse control went, but I find myself saying “Wait!” I think it’s just the fact that we had talked so casually about this just now, and I didn’t want this conversation to end so soon. He stops and turns around. He waits for me to speak, clearly wanting me to spit out whatever I want to say. “What?” I scratch the back of my arm a bit. Best to keep things light, right? “You still didn’t answer my question.” He raises an eyebrow. “About?” “If you have any weird fetishes.” He rolls his eyes. “I told you, I’m a classic guy.” “Yeah, but what does that mean? Something ‘tame’?” I mock. He smiles slightly. “Well, maybe something with a little more…” He pauses as he gestures towards the video I’m watching and searches for the right word, settling on “action.” “So watch a Marvel movie,” I comment with a sly smirk, and he psyches me out by pretending he’s about to hit me again. Either way, I recoil defensively. “I’ll call DCF if you hit me again,” I threaten. “Good. Then they can take you out of my house,” he says. “Ouch,” I say with a smirk. “Is that really how you feel about me?” “No, you dumbass,” he mutters with a tiny smile. Then he stares at me for a few seconds, unspeaking. What’s on his mind? “What?” I ask. “Nothing,” he says, shaking his head before holding up the laptop as appreciation for me typing in the password. “Enjoy your boring porn.” “It’s not boring,” I say, automatically defensive — which just makes me laugh. “Leave it up then. Maybe I’ll check it out later.” My cock twitches in my underwear at the thought of him stroking off to the same porn as me. “What if you hate it?” I ask playfully. He just lets out a tiny burst of air through his nose. “Then I’ll be even more disappointed in you than I already am.” “Hey!” “I’m kidding,” he says with a tiny smirk. “But honestly, of all videos I could have caught you watching, I’m surprised it’s just a pussy-eating video.” Why does the word “pussy” sound so hot coming from him? “What did you expect, then?” I ask, liking this banter. He just smiles for a moment, staring at me. “I don’t know,” he says after a second. Then, after another weird mini-staring-contest, he sets my laptop down and starts pushing my chair to the side. “Move over,” he says. “What are you doing?” I ask as he leans over and grabs the keyboard. “Giving you something *good* to watch.” I bite my bottom lip and watch as he grabs the mouse and starts to type something into the webpage. My heart races, suddenly nervous that he’ll notice the incredibly-gay titles of the other tabs that are open. But he doesn’t acknowledge them. He simply opens up a different porn-streaming site, types something into the search bar. “It’s not a weird fetish, so don’t get your hopes up.” “Dang,” I joke, laughing slightly and watching as he clicks on the second video that’s listed. Something that *definitely* has more action than a simple pussy-eating clip. “A threesome?” I ask, surprised. “You like threesomes?” “You don’t?” he fires back, looking at me before standing up straight. “This is a pretty good video. One of my all-time favorites.” He smirks slightly. “If you’re really my son, you’ll like it.” I glance at the cover image and see that it’s an MMF-threesome — two men and one woman. That, plus the fact that my father has stroked himself to this video, is making me sure that I will definitely like it. I don’t know what else to say besides “Cool.” I don’t have a smart retort for him. I just want to jerk off. Dad pats my shoulder before starting to turn around. “Let me know what you think,” he says. “I’ll be upstairs.” “Wanna watch it with me?” I blurt out. When he turns and looks at me, I feel incredibly intimidated by his gaze. Shit. Why the hell did I say that out loud? Maybe subconsciously I know he’s had quite a few more beers than usual. Maybe I was, somewhere deep down, hoping his inhibitions would be lowered enough to whip it out with me. Maybe he’s just made me irritatingly horny today and I’m feeling daring. Maybe I’m just riding this wave we’re on, wanting nothing more than to drag this discussion on for as long as it can be stretched. He seems to think about it for several long, almost excruciating moments before he nods a bit. “Alright,” he says, surprising me. “Really?” I ask, trying not to smile. “Sure,” he says, heading over to the dining room table and grabbing a chair. As he brings it over, he adds “But no kissing this time.” My heart. My heart almost explodes on the spot. “W-what?” I ask, blinking a few times. Is he talking about what I think he’s talking about? “Don’t play dumb, boy,” Dad says as he places the chair right next to mine. “I know you remember.” I clear my throat, feeling sweaty around my neck. “I didn’t think *you* did,” I say — although that’s not entirely true. I’ve always been sure he remembered. What I was never sure about was whether or not he’d ever bring it up with the intention of wanting to talk about it. “Kinda hard to forget,” he says before he grunts as he sits down. Then he sighs, spreads his legs, and switches his attention to the screen. “Alright. Press play.” My eyes shift towards his crotch before I turn back to the monitor. My head is still swimming from his mentioning of the kiss, but he didn’t seem terribly bothered by it. Hell, it was five years ago. I doubt he spent as much time ruminating on it as I did. But I’m excited. Watching porn with Dad? This is a fucking dream come true. As long as I keep my enthusiasm under wraps, I can add this sure-to-be-pleasant memory to my spank bank. So I grab the mouse, full-screen the video, and press play. I lean back in my seat, not daring to touch myself just yet. For now, I am just a passive observer. The video starts off with a shot of the sun before it pans down to a man in sunglasses who’s entering a Spanish-style home. California, perhaps? There’s some weird, moany soundtrack as we follow the man into the kitchen, where a woman in nothing but fishnets and a crop-top is sitting with her ass out. I almost laugh at the sight of the man pressing his face between her cheeks so weirdly. Too eagerly, perhaps. “What’s so great about this video?” I ask, glancing towards my dad. He just shrugs, though his eyes are focused on the screen. “It has everything,” he says simply, in that short, vague way he answers questions sometimes. “Everything” can mean a lot of things, so I decide to just sit back and enjoy the show. We sit in silence as we watch the scene unfold. Suddenly the man’s clothes have disappeared, along with the woman, and every time he finds her in another room in the house with her ass ready to be eaten again, she vanishes. I’d be laughing if I were alone, but I keep my chuckles to myself. Finally, after maybe five or so minutes, the naked man finds the girl in a bedroom. This time, though, she’s not alone — she’s kissing another man. I bite my lip, my cock twitching over how much of a stud the second guy is. I can’t resist touching myself as I watch him kiss her lips before lying her on the bed and going down on her. I grip my cock through my underwear, inhaling deeply and relaxing against the soft leather. Finally we’re getting into the real action. Soon, the stud stands up, and she starts blowing him while the first man jerks off in the doorway. That’s when I notice Dad shifting beside me. I hear the sound of his belt coming undone, and my eyes immediately go to his crotch to watch. He undoes his fly, leaves his jeans open, and fishes his cock out from his underwear, unabashedly starting to stroke it. “You don’t mind, right?” he asks. “What? Oh. No,” I say, swallowing thickly. No, I do not fucking mind, Dad. Don’t you dare put that away. “Cool.” I gulp again, watching him from the corner of my eye as I work myself. It’s so good to see it up close again. Even though it’s dim in here (the only real light is coming from a lamp beside the couch), I can still see details of his manhood: the flared head, the darker skin tone, the way his thickness fits so nicely in his fist. I’ve never seen a more desirable cock — not even in porn. That dick made me. That dick is attached to the most incredible man I’ll ever know. I want it. “You like it?” Dad asks. My breathing hitches at first because my initial thought is that he somehow magically heard my thoughts. And in my horny daze, I respond automatically, breathily: “Fuck yeah.” Then, I realize he’s talking istanbul travesti about the porn, not his fucking cock. “Language,” he warns me, to which I actually laugh slightly. Funny that he’s calling me out for using a cuss word right now. “Sorry.” He lets out a little affirmative grunt before we both focus on the video. It’s hot watching the two men fuck her, take turns on her, swap holes, double penetrate her… In fact, this scene is pretty damn homoerotic, especially considering it features one of the most controversial positions I’ve ever seen: both guys fucking her doggy style at the same time. Guy 1 is standing up and fucking her pussy while Guy 2 is mounting her on the bed, balls-deep in her ass. At a certain angle, it almost looks like the guy standing is fucking the other dude. No one could blame me for thinking that. After all, Guy 2’s ass keeps sliding against the abs of his buddy every time Guy 1 thrusts forward. And when Guy 1 even dares to put his hands on his buddy’s waist… I’m sweating. It’s hot as hell knowing that *this* arguably boundary-pushing video is one of Dad’s favorite things to jerk off to. I even let my mind conjure up a fantasy of the two of *us* sharing pussy together. Fuck, I’d sure as hell do that. No questions asked. I tug my boxers down a bit, holding the waistband under my balls as I stroke with my free hand. I can’t tell if he is or not, but I hope Dad’s looking. I hope he’s taking in the sight of me as much as I am him. He must be, right? After all, he made that “You look bigger” comment earlier when his eyes drifted towards my cock, even though I was soft then. I can’t help but reminisce about that muggy summer night, where we lied side by side, his arm around me, hearing him tell fourteen-year-old me all about how I’m a man now– “You been having sex?” Dad asks suddenly. “Me?” I ask, looking over at him. “No. Not since Michelle.” “Really?” He genuinely looks somewhat shocked. “That long?” “Why do you sound so surprised?” I ask. He shrugs. “You’re a strapping guy. Would’ve figured you’ve got a line at-the-ready.” I blush at the compliment but smile. Dad thinks I’m strapping, huh? “I don’t get out much, remember?” “Well you should,” he says, his eyes going back to the screen. While we talk, we’re both still gently stroking ourselves. “It’s not healthy to keep it all pent-up.” I snort. Maybe he’s right. “Isn’t that what this is for?” I jokingly ask, waving my stroking hand at him. He smiles slightly, shaking his head and letting out a tiny laugh through his nose. “Smartass,” he mumbles. We keep watching for a moment before I turn to him. “Have *you*?” He looks at me, pausing. “Not for a while, no.” “It’s not healthy to keep it all pent-up,” I say, throwing his words back at him with a smile. He grins a little bit before muttering “Don’t make me hit you.” I laugh before turning back to the screen. Just as the scene switches to another homoerotic position (a double-barrel blowjob), Dad lifts his ass from his chair and tugs both his jeans and underwear off fully. He kicks them to the side before quickly sliding his shirt off with one smooth motion. Now he’s totally naked next to me, lounging back in his chair, legs spread, one hand working his cock while the other rests on his thigh. I gulp, doing my damn best not to ogle him up close — but *fuck*, he’s so attractive. Somehow, it feels awkward that I still have clothes on and he doesn’t, so I follow his lead: I strip. I peel off my shirt before letting my boxers fall to my ankles, pressing my bare ass against the leather and leaning back. When I look over at Dad, we hit each other with small, knowing smiles. I feel totally at ease now. That minor moment where we just grinned at each other made me feel much more “at-home” with this whole situation. I stroke myself more openly, switching between watching the video and sneaking peeks at my dad. I wish we were in bed right now. Then we could cozy up, just like last time. But I’ll take what I can get. We time our orgasms near-perfectly with the first guy that cums. Just as he starts to unload in the girl’s mouth, Dad lets out a little grunt. I look over, not caring that I’m obviously watching him go through the throes of his orgasm. I stare as my dad leans his head back slightly, closes his eyes, and pumps out a thick load all over his torso. It seems to have some serious velocity, splattering hard against his chest before dribbling down over his stomach. Seeing Dad’s essence spilling all over himself drives me right over the edge, and I tense my legs and curl my toes as my orgasm hits me. I shut my eyes tight, swearing under my breath as I empty my balls for a second time this evening all over my stomach. Both of us take a moment to come to, half-watching the rest of the video to cool down. It’s nothing much. The girl just keeps sucking the two men’s cocks clean as they breathe heavily. Then, after the two men laugh at each other in a very bromantic fashion, the video goes blank. Dad sighs beside me. “Damn, I needed that,” he says softly. When I turn to him, I see he’s looking around for something to wipe his hand with. He settles with his underwear, reaching down to pull his boxer briefs out of his jeans. He wipes between his fingers before starting to dab at all that cum on his body. “Me too,” I concur. “Now I’ll sleep like a rock.” Dad laughs gently, nodding before looking at me. He pauses for a moment. Then: “You ever jerk off with Mason?” “Mason?” I blink, surprised by the question. He must have thought about Mason when I mentioned sleeping. “He’s five.” Dad just shrugs before offering me his underwear. At first, I’m totally unsure why he wants me to take it until I realize he’s just offering me fabric to wipe myself off. Regardless, I eagerly take it. It feels intimate, using the underwear Dad has been wearing all day to wipe up my load, underwear that is already damp from his own mess. “I just figured, with you two sharing a room and all…” I blush a bit as I clean myself up. “I mean… I don’t jerk off *with* him, but…” He nods in understanding. “Guess that explains the drifting hand syndrome, huh?” he says with a grin. I can’t help but laugh even though I feel a little embarrassed. “My bad.” “Eh, it’s not your fault,” Dad says casually. “You were the same way when you were about his age.” “Really?” I always perk up whenever he talks about me as a kid — something he rarely does. “Oh yeah. Couldn’t stop touchin’ yourself for anything.” He just laughs to himself. “But that’s just how it goes, right? Mason takes after his daddy, just like you take after your old man.” Is my cock twitching again? I blush a bit as my thoughts go wild. What does that mean exactly? Did Dad do similar things when he was raising me? Did I catch him jerking off a lot? Did he inadvertently teach me about masturbation when I was young? I have no real recollection of those events — at least, nothing concrete. I know I started masturbating at a *very* early age, but why? Maybe it’s just in our DNA, these weird, imprinted impulses. It’s in our blood, the three of us. Before I can even fathom what question I want to ask, Dad takes his underwear back from me, seeing that I’ve cleaned up. Then he bends down to grab his clothes off the floor before standing up. “I’m gonna go shower quick,” he says, scooping up the laptop with one hand. “Make sure you turn the computer off. Doesn’t need to be on all night.” I smile at his constant attempts to save money wherever he can. Electricity is a big one. “Okay,” I say, nodding as he turns. I watch his body head up the staircase before I turn and shut everything down, forgetting about the pussy-eating video. Once the screen goes black, I let out a heavy exhale. Fuck, that was awesome. It was obviously sexual, and it helped satiate my fantasies a bit, but it also felt like a strange bonding experience. Maybe it was the level of comfort I felt by the end, or just the simple fact that we opened another door in our relationship. I really hope he felt it too. After putting Dad’s chair back at the dining table, I pull my clothes back on, take a few minutes to clean up around the living room, and then head upstairs. The only thing left to do is get ready for bed, so I knock on the bathroom door, hearing that Dad’s in the shower. “Yeah?” he calls out. “Can I come in?” I ask. “Gotta brush my teeth.” “Yeah, of course,” he calls back. I step inside, immediately hit with a cloud of steam. I leave the door open a bit to air out the room before stepping up to the sink and grabbing my toothbrush. Just as I’m putting toothpaste on the brush, Dad speaks up. “Jack texted me, by the way.” “About what?” I ask, looking towards the shower. The curtain is so thick that I can’t even see his silhouette. “He couldn’t find his old camera, but he’s pretty sure his nephew has a bunch of stuff. The kid collects all that.” I squint slightly. “Jack has a nephew?” I ask before I start brushing my teeth. “Yeah, Patrick. You met him.” I try to recall a Patrick, but I only know one — my old boss. “Doesn’t ring a bell,” I say as I scrub my teeth. “He’s the gay one,” Dad clarifies. Then it clicks. I remember meeting Patrick years ago at one of Dad’s gang’s get-togethers. How could I forget about him? He was the first openly gay kid I had ever met. His confidence and unfearfully-fem mannerisms both intrigued and intimidated me, and I remember going home that night debating whether or not I wanted to be out-and-proud like he was. “Ohhh, right,” I say. “I forgot that was his name.” “It’s fine. The kid doesn’t come around much,” Dad says before shutting off the water in the shower. I look in the mirror and watch Dad pull the curtain back and step out of the shower, dripping wet as he reaches for a towel. “Smart guy, though. Going to Harvard in the fall, I hear.” “Damn,” I say, impressed. Seems like Patrick has his life together. As Dad dries off, I quickly finish brushing my teeth before spitting into the sink and rinsing my mouth out. “‘Scuse me,” I hear Dad say close behind me. I glance at him and see that he’s got his towel wrapped around his waist, trying to get to the medicine cabinet above the sink. I scooch over a bit, giving him enough room to open the cabinet and pull out a pair of nail clippers before he starts trimming his fingernails. I put my toothbrush away but I stand close by, watching Dad focus on his nails. “What do you think of him?” I ask. Dad peers over at me, confused. “Of who? Patrick?” “Yeah.” “I don’t understand your question.” I swallow. “Like, him being gay. What do you think?” Dad just shrugs. “I don’t think anything,” he says, going back to his nails. “It’s his life.” I’ve toyed with the idea of coming out to my dad for years. Often, I’ve been at the verge of spilling the truth about my sexuality, but I always back out at the last second. Nerves, I think. I’m positive my father isn’t a bigot in any way. Hell, his biker gang consists of some of the most liberal dudes I’ve ever met. All of them are die-hard protectors of marginalized people, despite being a bunch of mean-looking white dudes. I’ve always found that admirable. But still, there’s always that tiny fear that something would change between us — for the worse. “What if Mason was gay?” Dad looks at me skeptically. “You think he’s gay?” I just shrug. “I’m just speaking hypothetically.” Dad stares for a moment before repeating his earlier answer: “It’s his life.” I feel my heart racing, pounding, thudding in my ears. “What if–?” And then I stop myself. What am I doing? Do I really want to have this conversation right now, right after we just jerked off together, after that glorious bonding experience? Is this really the moment to come out of the closet? Do I really want to risk it? “Sorry. Never mind.” He arches an eyebrow, looking at me curiously. “You sure?” I hesitate, but something in his tone seems to imply that it’s okay, that I can talk to him. This is a safe space, always has been. “What if… I…?” But I can’t bring myself to finish the sentence — not while he’s giving me completely undivided attention. Why do I feel ashamed? Maybe that’s what I’m afraid of. Dad brought me up to be honest with myself and not feel ashamed about who I am, and here I am, looking like I’m humiliated by a big part of my identity. I hope he’s not disappointed in me. “Are you?” he asks after a moment. I swallow thickly, my throat feeling weird. I’m hot and itchy all of a sudden. “Maybe,” I say, but as soon as the word leaves my mouth, I regret it. that’s not the truth. I know how I feel. There’s only one answer. “Yes,” I say instead. I fully expected him to do his classic stop-and-stare, but he responds almost immediately, just smiling softly and sighing a bit. “I figured as much,” he says. I blink. “You did?” “I think I’ve always kinda known,” he explains. Then he smirks. “Plus, I can see everything you search online.” Jesus Christ. “You can?” It must be something other than just my browser history. He must be able to see everything even if I delete my searches, probably through the cable company. He nods. “I used to look, when you were a little younger,” he says. “Then it just felt like I was invading your privacy or something.” I blush heavily. “You never said anything, though.” “What was I supposed to do, out you?” he asks, and I see his point. “Besides, I could’ve been wrong. A questionable search history doesn’t mean much, y’know? And you were, what, thirteen, fourteen? Coulda just been a phase.” “I guess,” I say. I don’t know why I feel the need, but I apologize. “Stop that,” Dad says, putting down the clippers and taking my face into his hands. “You have nothing to apologize for, Mitch,” he says firmly — almost like I’m in trouble, like I’m being disciplined. “Got that?” I nod, but I can feel the tears well up in my eyes and start streaming down my face. I’m overwhelmed, confused by his tone but terribly relieved that he still accepts me. Dad just sighs when he sees the tears. I feel a little embarrassed for crying right now, but he wraps his broad arms around me, pulling me into him. I hug him tightly, like a lifeline, burying my face into his neck. This is where I feel the most safe, the most at home: in his arms. “You know I love you, right?” I nod against his shoulder. “I know, Dad.” “More than anything.” He wraps his arms around me even more tightly. “Or anyone.” “If you’re trying to make me stop crying, that’s not gonna help,” I say with a teary laugh. I hear Dad chuckle softly. “Yeah, I suppose so.” He lets the hug last for another half a minute before he pulls back, putting his hands on my shoulders and studying my face. “You gonna be alright?” “Yeah,” I tell him, smiling as I wipe the wetness off my cheeks and sniffle grossly. “Happy tears. I promise.” Dad smiles, but he treats me with one of the rarer smiles — I get a glimpse of his teeth. And that only makes my heart ache even more. “Good,” he says, leaning forward to plant a long kiss on my forehead. “Now go get some sleep,” he says, pressing his fist gently into my chest, “before you wimp out on me.” I laugh. “Okay.” I turn to leave — but not before I give him another close, appreciative hug. He grunts when I embrace him, but wraps his arms around me regardless, and I smile. “I love you too, Dad,” I tell him. I love you so much. More than you know.
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