Blizzard Daddy

We were going to resolve the argument as we often did, and that was OK with me, although our arguments were coming closer together and becoming more serious. I thought Cam and I had reached the point of no return on arguments. And as we moved into the resolution of this one, with the beefy running back for the Los Angeles Rams football team pulling me on top of him on his bed in the Laurel Canyon bungalow we shared, we were moving into another argument if he got shitty about it.

The big, black bruiser wanted me to ride him bareback. He always wanted to do it bareback, but he had too many sex partners for me to put up with that. We lived together and were considered a couple but that didn't keep him from fucking around. I did some fucking around myself, but it was done with a safety net of condom use.

We struggled a bit, but I got a condom rolled onto his huge cock, with him on his back, and me straddling his hips. Once I'd positioned the cockhead and started descending on it, he gave up on the preference of barebacking—at least this time—grasped my buttocks with his hands, and rolled, separated, and bounced my cheeks while I rode the cock.

We plowed on to a mutual ejaculation that, with the practice we'd had in the three years we'd been together on and off, we managed almost simultaneously. He was a twenty-six-year-old, six-foot-one, 215-pound hunk power top, and I was a slim but well-muscled white, twenty-four-year-old, five foot ten, 165-pound professional male model submissive, so we couldn't have been better matched. That was other than he wanted to fuck around barebacking, and I wanted to live a relatively long life.

After the last long slide and me collapsing backward, both of us jerking off our climaxes, panting heavy, and murmuring our "Oh, shit, oh fuck" pleasure of our completions, I heard the groan from across the room and turned my face to see the man leaning in the doorway, watching us, and with his erection out, by all appearances having managed to come with his stepson, Cam Atwell, and me.

Richard Taylor was white. He was dressed in some sort of uniform I hadn't seen him in before. I hadn't seen him much at all since I'd been with Cam. He was a handsome, trim, but well-muscled, ginger guy in his late forties—but fit enough to be taken to be in his twenties. He wasn't old enough or the right color to be Cam's dad, but Cam's dad had never been in the picture and Taylor had married Cam's mother and taken on the boy she already had. When she split, Taylor had been the only parent Cam had through his high school years, through college, and being taken up by pro football.

The stepfather obviously had enjoyed the view, but that didn't mean I wasn't embarrassed—slightly, at least—that he'd found his stepson and me fucking and had stayed around to enjoy the performance.

"Sorry, Shawn," he said to me but then addressed Cam. "Just dropped by to tell you I wouldn't see you again until the new year—I have to work and will be out of town for a while—and to wish you a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year. You two doing something special for New Year's Eve?"

"I have to work too," I said, rolling off the bed, picking up the Speedo I'd been wearing before the fuck, and heading toward the bathroom. "I'll be in Virginia for Christmas and New Year's." It was the morning of Christmas Eve now, so it wouldn't take a genius for Taylor to know I had a plane to catch in the next few hours.

I gathered up the clothes I was going to travel in—I was a regular fashion model for the Abercrombie & Fitch sexy boys advertisement campaign, so the clothes I traveled in were attention getting—and I went into the bathroom and turned on the shower. When I came out, Cam was turned to the wall, producing a half-way-convincing snore, and his stepfather was gone. Cam didn't like to do good-byes, and I don't think he had much of an idea that we were approaching that last good-bye in our relationship, so I just told him I'd call him when my second flight landed at the airport in Newport News, Virginia, near Williamsburg, my final destination. He didn't know that I was going early to my Williamsburg-at-Christmas fashion shoot. I was getting there early enough to make the shoot's director, Vincente Calibrese, happy with a couple of tumbles in bed. But Cam wouldn't care even if he knew I would be in the sack with the shoot's director. Our relationship was that open.

Juan, the nineteen-year-old pool boy was fiddling with the Christmas tree by the fireplace in the living room as I passed. He was just in a Speedo and I didn't know why he was in the house rather than out cleaning the pool, but, in fact, I did know. He was just waiting for me to leave. He had been the source of one of my arguments with Cam that morning. It wasn't about Cam fucking the pool boy. Cam had promised to use a rubber with Juan, but when I'd asked Juan about it, he acted like I was crazy to think Cam ever wore protection.

I didn't want to share medical issues with Juan. He gave me a little sneer when I passed him by. We both knew he'd be where I recently was after I'd left for LAX. He'd be saddled on Cam's hips, riding him in a bouncing cowboy. And Cam wouldn't be wearing a condom. Whatever Juan picked up from somewhere could be transmitted to me if I wasn't careful.

I got as far as my Mustang and checked my messages. The flight to Chicago to hook up with on ongoing flight to Newport News already was on an hour delay. I checked the weather Web site and saw that a blizzard was brewing to come down into the country's midsection over the Great Lakes and that it already was having an effect on flight schedules. I could wait off the trip to the madhouse of the airport for another hour.

I climbed out of the Mustang and went back into the house. I heard them as soon as I entered the foyer. Cam and Juan were fucking, and they were doing it pretty wildly. And I knew they were doing it without protection. They hadn't even waited for me to get out of the driveway.

This wasn't going to continue going on. My new year's resolution was going to be to move out and go to a new phase of life in my own apartment when I returned from the Williamsburg shoot.

I continued on into town near to Los Angeles International Airport in Inglewood to where A&E had offices, spent my extra hour there, left my car parked in the company garage, and took a cab to the airport.

I was standing in front of the erotica section in an airport bookstore, browsing for something to take onto the plane with me, when I noticed another tall guy browsing the shelves too. He was a handsome guy, probably in his early forties. What was arresting about him, though, was that he was in airline officer's flight uniform and that he was looking at me and smiling. I took a book off the shelf, a gay male short story anthology called Rough Riders, which had a cover making clear what sort of book it was. There was no hiding that I was buying a gay male book. Of course the good-looking guy was browsing this shelf too.

The man's smile remained on his face and he reached by me and pulled down one titled House of Lords, with a bare-chested thuggish muscle man on the cover. His arm brushed on mine and I felt the chill of arousal go up my spine. Some men flipped my switch immediately. He did. I nodded to him after I'd paid for my book and went on to the departure area, which was mobbed with milling-around people.

I was looking through my carry-on bag, tucking the book I'd bought in when the flight crew arrived—flight attendants and pilots altogether in uniforms—the same uniform the guy in the bookstore had worn and that, now that I thought about it, I had seen recently before—I tried to take the same airline when I could, as A&F let its staff keep their air reward points—but I couldn't pick him out.

That would make a good story, I thought. Two seeking gay guys encountering each other in an airport bookstore buying gay male reading material and winding up on the same flight, going to the same city. I spent the next few minutes weaving a story about this in my mind, a pastime I enjoyed doing. Because of the weather report I'd seen and being worried that I might be stranded in Chicago, I let my imagination spin the story out to be where the flight was terminated at the destination by a blizzard and the two guys hooked up—a passenger and the flight pilot. As with a lot of stories I wove in my mind, this one aroused me sexually.

And then it became a possibility.

I usually was flown business class to photo shoots, but this time nothing had been available on either leg of the trip except economy class. But before we boarded, my name was called. I went to the desk to find that I was being upgraded to business class. And then, no sooner had we gotten up in the air than a smiling flight attendant appeared beside my seat with a glass of ice and one of those small, one-drink bottles of Glenlivet Captain's Scotch.

"Compliments of the captain," an obviously gay steward said, with a knowing smile. The steward had latched on to me as soon as I entered the plane, giving me an "I know you're one of those sexy boy Abercombie & Fitch models" assessment.

I didn't catch the name of the pilot, but I knew there was a more-than-even chance he'd identify himself to me when we landed in Chicago. He was out of luck, though, unless Chicago was being socked in by a blizzard when we arrived. I only had an hour to get to my connecting flight after the delay of my flight from LAX.

* * * *

Chicago O'Hare was, of course, in the process of being socked in by a blizzard when we landed there. Ours was the last flight landed and the last flight out had already departed. As we taxied to the gate they closed the runways. The blizzard had come in fast with heavy snow mixed with ice. We got to the terminal, but from there there wasn't going to be any onward travel through Christmas Eve and into Christmas Day—at least.

The first thing I did when I had made it into the gate lounge, where passengers already were mobbing the ticket counters with "What now?" problems in near hysteria tones, was to find an empty line of chairs near the edge of the area and to call the advance shoot team in Williamsburg, Virginia.

"Sylvia? I'm Shawn Brantley, one of the male models for the Williamsburg A&E winter fashion shoot for the 29th. Vicente Calibrese wanted me to check in with him on my arrival there later tonight. I've arrived in Chicago, but a snowstorm has shut the airport down. Is there a way to let him know I can't arrive until at least tomorrow, Christmas Day?" It was the best way I could put it. I couldn't say Calibrese wants me to arrive early, tonight, because he wants to fuck me for four days before the shoot starts.

"We know all about the snowstorm. He won't care that you'll arrive late," Sylvia said. "He's not coming anymore at all. The blizzard extend all across the northern states and has him trapped in New York. So, he's been moved to another project in New York. Denis Waters has taken over the direction of the Williamsburg shoot. He was already here working on pinning the venue arrangements down. Do you want me to try to find him? Do you need to talk to him?"

"No, that's fine," I said. "I'm sure I'll make it there by the 29th. Just keep my room open and I'll report in my changed travel schedule when I have it."

And that was that. I wasn't expected in Williamsburg now for four more days. I looked around to see if any of the flight crew from my flight was still in the area. Would my imagined story come true? I did see the crew come off together. The flight attendant who had brought me the Scotch looked at me and smiled. We both knew we both were submissives, though, and that there would be no connection beyond our knowing smiles. The two pilots were there, but I could tell by their height and body mass that neither one of them was the pilot who had given me the "maybe hookup in Chicago" look in the L.A. airport bookstore.

I was only barely aware that one of the pilots broke off and moved toward me when I heard, "There you are, Shawn. Did you have a good flight?"

I knew the voice and it then hit me where I'd recently seen that uniform before. Cam's stepfather, Richard Taylor, had been wearing that uniform as he stood in Cam's bedroom doorway and watched me climax on his stepson's cock.

"Mr. Taylor," I said. "What a surprise to see you here. I didn't know we'd be on the same flight."

"When you said you were flying to Williamsburg via Chicago today, I figured we would be. I was on for a flight to Chicago. I checked the manifest and saw you were listed."

"So, it was you who got me upgraded and a glass of that expensive Scotch." That mystery solved was rather deflating. It was my lover's stepfather, not the result of a chance encounter at an airport bookstore. The bookstore guy was a real hunk. Cam's stepfather was good enough looking too, but I'd been thinking of the bookstore guy. That certainly took the romance out of it. No interesting short story to write on that.

"Yep, that was me. What now? It seems we're both stranded here. I was scheduled to take flight back to L.A. in the morning, but it doesn't look now like that's going to happen. I'll get a new flight when the shutdown here is lifted. I've already been told that won't be until at least tomorrow, though."

"So, we're stuck here. And all of these people are stranded here with us," I said, looking around. "I was going to hold off trying to find someplace to eat and regroup, as everyone else would be trying to do the same. But it looks like it doesn't matter what I do. There will be a mob of other people trying to do the same."

"Lucky we met up, then," Taylor said. "I can be daddy. I can take charge in negotiating a way through this for both of us. The flight crews have their own restaurants tucked around here and there. You can come with me and we'll find someplace to eat. If we do it on the quick we should be able to get a table without waiting."

It wasn't just a convenient plan; it was a godsend. I wasted no time in accepting the offer.

As we were eating in a place that was halfway between a cafeteria and a table-cloth restaurant and that was so calm in atmosphere that we'd have no idea of the panic and frustration running through the O'Hare terminals if there wasn't a huge window we were sitting beside. It overlooked the frigid blizzard conditions outside on the deserted runways. Taylor and I became better acquainted and more comfortable with each other as we took our time eating our meal, there being no place either one of us had to be anytime soon.

Before now, I had been leery of the stepfather's attitude of his black football player stepson getting it on with a white male fashion model. After earlier in the day, though, I realized that it wasn't that Taylor had anything against gay relationships. I realized I had made an effort not to know about him. I hadn't even known he was a commercial airline pilot. I certainly hadn't found myself assessing him for any sort of personal relationship. Having time to do so now, I did so.

"I confess I've been staying away from your arrangement with Cam," he said, almost as if he realized I was just then assessing him for more than just my boyfriend's absent stepfather.

"I realize that. The same from my end," I said. "I thought you wouldn't approve of a gay relationship your son was in."

"My stepson, and it should be obvious to you now that it wasn't that. I'm not talking about just staying out of my son's pick for friends—and, yes, lovers, knowing he's gay. I'm talking about my own attraction to you. Does that repel you?"

I paused. "I haven't thought about that, but, no, it doesn't repel me."

He'd extended his hand and was brushing the hair on my forearm with his fingers. I don't know if he even was aware he was doing that, but I certainly was. And what did I think of him doing that? Being as how he was the father—if somewhat remotely—of the man who was fucking me? Strangely, what I felt was arousal. I thought he was signaling that he wanted to fuck me too. And that didn't bother me; that turned me on. I took a closer look at him. He was a handsome man and he looked very fit for his age—something over forty, I thought. I'd done it with older men. One has to do that in the fashion world to get anywhere. And when they were good-looking and fit, it was fine. They tended to have more experience, more good moves and positions than younger, "get it now and get it quick" guys.

Cam Atwell was a "get it now and get it quick" guy.

"Should I stop talking now and leave it there, or is there some hope—can I say more?"

I paused again to look out onto the snow building up on the runway. I couldn't say I was repelled by what he had been saying—what I was assessing in him. "No, that's fine. We can talk."

"You don't mind talking about these things with an older man?"

"I have no trouble with your age."

"I'm not too old to get it up," he said. We both gave a nervous little laugh at that. He continued. "I stayed away because I was frustrated and disappointed that my stepson found you first."

There it was then, fully out in the open. He did want to fuck me. Too bad we were stuck in public in a crowded locked-down air terminal. I wasn't going to have the opportunity to even decide whether to open myself to the possibilities with Cam's stepfather.

"Does that disturb you or turn you off?" he asked, his enticing, hopeful puppy-dog gray eyes locked onto mine.

"No, it doesn't," I answered. "You should know, though, that it's winding down between Cam and me. I don't think we'll be together when I return to L.A."

"I would hope you didn't think that that meant you had to avoid any contact with me," he said. His knee was nudging mine under the surface of the table. I'd had my thighs together and I, almost involuntarily, spread them and his knee pressed in against my inner thigh.

He was about to say something else, when he stopped abruptly and said, instead, "We've finished our meal and I see other flight crews have decided they'd better eat and this table is needed. Another perk we have is access to the VIP lounges. That would be a more comfortable way to spend Christmas Eve than on a bank of seats in any of the crowded departure lounges where everyone is trying to make the best of the blizzard lockdown. Would you like to spend Christmas Eve with me on a VIP lounge?"

"That sounds great," I said. He didn't say it was a date, and these were the circumstances for having a date. But I could tell that we both thought of it as having a date. That, of course, raised the question of whether I'd do it on the first date. I'd done it on first dates before, though, so, as far as I was concerned, that wasn't any sort of a hurdle. He put his hand on the small of my back to help guide me out of the restaurant. At the door it descended to the curve of my buttocks.

And I didn't move away from his touch.

We found a VIP lounge where they were determined to enjoy Christmas Eve. There was a decorated tree; fairy lights all about; with the overhead lights dimmed down, free-flowing liquor and snacks; a piano with more than one accomplished stranded passenger pianist; and even a karaoke machine with Christmas tunes in it. The crowd was large, but not overwhelming, and it was determined to make the best of it. We sat around in the semi-dark, drinking, looking at the decorated tree, listening to various people stepping forward to play or sing Christmas tunes, and otherwise getting comfortable. I sang some myself and was well received, which was only right as I took singing lessons as well as modeling and dance lessons, with the goal, although with thousands of other young hopefuls living in L.A. of being discovered by the movies. And, sitting with Richard Taylor and both of us mellowing out with liquor, I allowed myself to become very comfortable with him.