Daddy Issues

"You want more than talk tonight. You want a daddy's dick. Come upstairs and let me be your daddy."

"The concert."

"They have a deal here. For the price of the tickets, you can skip the in-theater experience and have the concert piped into your room. We're both music people. We can fuck to Maxwell. What do you say?"

"I've heard about black men. How big is your dick?"

Warren laughed. "I'm almost nine inches hard. Daddy's got a nine-inch dick for you. And, while we're at it I can confirm that bald men are the most virile men. I noticed you didn't balk when I said the direction could come with punishment."

"No, I didn't," I answered, shuddering. I hadn't had it rough before, but I'd been curious, and I was open to rising to new heights in sex.

We fucked to Maxwell, both naked, Warren as big as promised, laying me on my back on the foot of the bed, starting me off in the missionary position, both of us humming to Maxwell as Warren worked my body, opening me up, stretching my hole with his fingers and tongue to prepare me for nine inches. No enhancement pills for Warren. He was just as big naturally as I could sheath.

I didn't move into position as fast as he wanted to at first, so he pushed me down on the bed on my belly, and pulled one of my arms painfully up my back with one hand while spanking me on the bare butt with the other. Whimpering, I surrendered quickly to that, begging for the cock, and that was that as far as punishment. After that I quickly responded to everything he commanded me to do. It was just a taste of the corporal punishment realm, but I could see how that might be very arousing.

He was a real smooth cocksman, going right with the music. He made me his slave by picking me up from the bed after he'd pumped me for a good twelve minutes, and holding me, captive, on the front of his tall, beefy body, hooking my knees on his hips, having me fist my fingers together behind his neck, and bouncing me up and down on his thick, black shaft.

We finished in a second fuck with him stretched out on back on the bed and me riding him, both facing and away from him, in what started as a languid rocking and ending with me doing a frenzied bucking rodeo ride on his shaft.

I cried out, "Oh, Daddy, Daddy! I'm coming!" and climaxed. Warren climaxed again too. We came almost together that time.

We exchanged cards afterward. "Whenever you need a daddy, I'm your man," Warren said.

"So, I did good, Daddy?" I asked.

"You did great, son."

I don't know if what they say about big, black men and the size of their shafts was universally—or generally—true, but it certainly was with Warren.

* * * *

When I got back to my apartment I turned my cellphone back on to see that there had been a couple of calls from my dad. Maybe, I thought, he had rethought the idea of me coming for Christmas—and meeting Chuck. I hadn't heard much about Chuck other than that the man my biological father had left my mother and me for fourteen years earlier was just six years older than I was—at thirty-two—and was an auto mechanic. The screaming I'd heard between my parents made him out to be a redneck power top.

I called back, but it wasn't my dad I got.

"No, this is Chuck," I heard from out of the ether. "I'm sorry you have to hear it this way, but you need to know. Your dad died this morning."

He took several seconds for that to sink in, but Chuck gave me the time I needed for that. "He said he was cancer-free," I said in disbelief and denial, but of course I knew it was true. Chuck wouldn't have called me direct otherwise. "He told me that he'd beaten it."

"That's true. But he'd been banged up in life. There were some wounds. The chemo dislodged some blood clots and they went to his heart. He wouldn't have suffered. He died in his favorite chair, drinking coffee and reading the morning paper. I'm so sorry. It really would be good if you still came out. I know you were planning to be here for Christmas. There will be a funeral, of course. But there also are things that need to be done. Not the funeral arrangements. We'd worked all those out when he thought the cancer would take him. If you don't want to come, of course—"

"No, no," I said. "I'll keep to the plan." Of course I no longer wanted to come—I hadn't wanted to come to begin with—but of course I recognized that it was my duty to help close out Dad's affairs—well, his life commitments. I didn't want to have anything to do with his affair with Chuck. "I'll come as scheduled, but I'll have to call you back on that," I said. "I can't do or say anymore right now. I have to process this."

"I understand," Chuck said. "I'll help you anyway I can." I couldn't help but hear the grief in his voice.

My father was forty-eight when he died—the same age Warren was when he power fucked me tonight.

Oh, Daddy, Daddy. I'm coming.

* * * *

"Oh, Charlie doesn't work as a mechanic in a gas station. He owns three gas stations in town and runs a school teaching auto mechanics. We'd be lost without him here in Fort Collins."

I'd been talking at Dad's wake with an elderly woman resident of my dad's apartment house in Fort Collins, in an upscale condo conversion building on North College Street, in the old downtown area, and had mentioned that it was a pretty swank place for Dad's guy, Chuck, to be living, when the woman popped my illusion. It wasn't the first illusion I'd lost since flying out for Dad's funeral and all of the cleanup work that entailed, although Chuck had taken care of most of that before I got here, including putting on this wake at Dad's condo. There hadn't been much in the way of a funeral. Dad had been cremated. It's how he wanted it.

This was just the most recent of my illusions to be shattered. It had started with Chuck not meeting me at the Denver airport and driving me up to Fort Collins in the snow himself.

"I'm Daniel," the young guy who met me had said. He was quite a good-looking guy maybe a couple of years older than I was, but very fit, quite handsome in a dark, sexy cowboy sort of way, enhanced by him being dressed like a cowboy, fancy boots, well-fitting Western shirt, and cowboy hat. "He doesn't go out in snow like this."

I thought the excuse was a bit lame. I thought Chuck was just not going to give priority to me, which I guess I deserved, as, even after all these years they'd been together, I hadn't bothered to meet the gas pump jockey. And to add insult, I assumed that this Daniel was who Chuck had already replaced my dad with. Dad not even cremated yet and Chuck had a replacement.

"I'll drive you to your dad's condo," he said on the drive back, "We've laid in enough groceries to hold you for a couple of days. I'll have to just drop you off and introduce you to Chuck, though, as it's snowing and I'll have to get back to work."

"Snowing and getting back to work?" I asked.

"Yep. I run a snowplow in Fort Collins. Digging the university and surrounding streets out."

Great, I thought, a gas station attendant and a snow plow operator. I'll be in such sophisticated company for Christmas. I was already committed to be here, going through Dad's stuff through Christmas.

My illusions started to shatter the moment we arrived at the condo. First of all, the building was swank, and my Dad had had a quite large two-bedroom and den apartment on the fourth, top floor overlooking the downtown area. He'd moved here since the last time I'd visited him and a far-less luxurious apartment. Of course he was working high school then and college when he'd moved here. Second, Chuck hadn't been able to meet me at the airport because Chuck was in a wheelchair.

Why hadn't I known that? When had he become disabled? Had Dad told me that and I hadn't been listening.

Third, Daniel, who hadn't stayed around long after we arrived at the apartment, which was too bad because he was real easy on the eyes, wasn't Chuck's boyfriend.

"I hope you managed to hook up with my brother easy enough at the airport," Chuck said, when we met. "Sorry I didn't meet you. I had intended to, but the snow is just too much for me in getting down to Denver."

"Your brother?"

"Yes, Daniel. He's been a great help to me with your dad for the last year. We had quite a time of it with him fighting the lung cancer and me in this wheelchair."

And I hadn't known any of this was happening. Dad and I hadn't just drifted apart because we were such different people. We had been on different planets.

The illusions kept shattering. Chuck and Dad didn't live together. They had their won condos across from each other on the same floor. It appeared that some of the other residents in the building didn't even know they were a couple. It was clear when I met them that no one cared even if they did and they all thought the world of both men.

And some of my other assumptions and suspicions were laid to rest. Everything I'd remembered to be where my dad had lived all of the previous Christmases I'd visited him were still there in his own apartment. Nothing had disappeared. Chuck's apartment was well and expensively furnished, but his decorating tastes were different from my dad's. He hadn't taken anything from my dad's place. And, when we went to the lawyer's office the day after I arrived, I found that Chuck wasn't taking anything. Everything was coming to me—Dad's hefty savings accounts, the condo, even a car, amusingly a 2015 Audi A5 coupe. For some reason, although my dad was well-heeled enough, Chuck was the richer of the two. He hadn't gone with my dad for his money. That certainly was news to me.

And now, thanks to an elderly woman neighbor, at Dad's wake, I knew why. Chuck didn't just pump gas, he owned a string of gas stations and was—or had been before being trapped in a wheel chair—a master auto mechanic and ran a school teaching other auto mechanics.

The shattering didn't stop there. Another resident of the building saddled up to me at my dad's wake and said, "I understand you were a collegiate tennis champion. Your dad told me about that. He really was proud of you."

"Dad? Proud of my tennis. Dad was all contact sports, like football."

"Yes, but I play tennis and he made sure to tell me when your team was playing and then told me the results, being very proud of how you did."

He did? We were like ships passing in the night. I never thought he approved of my choice of sports.

"Have you met Charlie's brother, Daniel, yet? He's the tennis coach at the university here. You two probably should get together for a match."

"University tennis coach? Chuck's brother? I thought he worked street equipment."

"He plows the snow in the winter, yes," the neighbor said. "But he and Chuck own snow plows and have the city contract to plow out the downtown in weather like this. He says it helps him stay in shape for his tennis job."

And Daniel was in great shape, I had been able to tell. Another illusion demolished. Had I not been looking well enough and fair enough at life?

And at my relationship with my father? Could it be that the lack of approval from my mostly absent dad hadn't been what I thought it was?

Could it be that my dad hadn't even been as absent as I had thought—or at least that the extent he had been was as much my fault as his?

* * * *

Way out west, they've got a name

For rain and wind and fire

The song was driving me crazy. I had been staying at Dad's condo for two days and had been listening to a western male quartet playing of "They Call the Wind Mariah," almost constantly since. The doors to both Dad's condo and Chuck's, across the hall, had been open to the landing just they apparently always had been and the sound of the record, with this song and other Western ones, like "Cool Water," sung by the same quartet had been running almost constantly.

I finally crossed the hall to find out why, to find Chuck, sitting in his living room by a Christmas tree that was up but undecorated. He had a record album in his hand and he was quietly crying.

"Sorry, I don't mean to disturb you," I said, when he saw that I was there. "I just wondered what was up with that record being played over and over."

"It's one of your Dad's records."

"I don't remember him having an album like that," I said.

"It isn't that he owned it. It's that he's on it. He was in the quartet. He's here on the album cover. I'm playing it because I want to hear his voice still—you know, like how some people can't change the voice mail recording on their phones because they want to hear a lost one's voice still?"

"On the cover?" He showed it to me and, sure enough, there was my dad in his younger days.

"You didn't know he sang on the radio when he was younger?"

"No I didn't know. I didn't know he even approved of music. I thought he disparaged my interest in that."

"Where did you get that idea? Your dad loved that you were a singer—and that you acted on stage in college. He used to drag me to the openings of your plays."

"He attended my plays? He never showed that he was there?"

"Well, you always had your mother and her new husband going to you afterward. Your dad didn't want to intrude. He was proud of your stage work, though. He sent money to give you private acting lessons with. He said he was sorry he hadn't kept up with his own music interests."

"He's the one who paid for those?" I asked, astonished. "My mother never said he's the one who paid for the lessons."

"Oh, well," was all Chuck said.

I didn't know what to say. I looked around his living room. He still had tears in his eyes and I didn't want to embarrass him.

"You have a tree, but it isn't decorated," I said.

"Yes, we decided to have just one tree this year—with all that your dad was going through—and to have it in here. We got the tree up, but . . . he . . . died before we could get it decorated."

"Would you like to have it decorated this year? Can I help with that?"

"I thought I'd just take it down, but, yes, I would like to have it decorated. I'm having a New Year's Eve gathering—your dad wanted me to go through with that—and it would be nice to have the tree up. Maybe Christmas Eve . . . if you're not doing anything else, you could come over for dinner and we could trim the tree."

"Yes, I'd like that," I said. I noticed then that a package wrapped in Christmas paper that was laying on a coffee table had my name on it. "What's this? A Christmas present? It's marked for me."

"Yes, your dad managed to wrap one for you. He was working on the present anyway, but when you said you'd come for Christmas, he put a rush on it and wrapped it. Do you want to open it now?"

I thought about it, but said, "No. When I visited him at Christmas, we always opened our presents on Christmas Day. Maybe I'll hold off. And I'll leave it here, as this is where the tree is."

"So, you'll be here on Christmas morning too? I hope so. I really don't want to be alone on Christmas this year."

"Sounds like a plan. And could we play this record again now? And could you help me pick out which voice is my dad's?"

* * * *

"I hope you don't mind. I've invited my brother, Daniel, for dinner and to help us trim the tree."

"No, I don't mind at all," I said. "With three we almost could—"

"Make a popcorn garland for the tree?" Chuck said, picking up a large bowl full of popcorn. "Your dad always wanted to do a popcorn chain for the Christmas tree."

"Yes, he did," I replying, upon which footsteps could be heard on the stairs and a smiling, very sexy Daniel had arrived.

We had a great time stringing popcorn, getting a fire started, and watching a football game on Chuck's TV. Luckily, the tree was prestrung with lights as none of us was being very good with anything requiring concentration and precision. We were just horsing around and having a good time. Luckily, nothing much can go wrong with making a popcorn string beyond making a pincushion out of your fingers.

Daniel and I talked about this and that and almost everything else as Chuck wheeled around in the background, making sure we had something to drink and eat and making preparations for the dinner he was serving. We grew hardly to notice him as Daniel and I became better acquainted. We spent some time discussing tennis and he said he'd try to set up a tennis date in the next couple of days.

"Even though it's Christmas, some students are still here, not having anywhere to go for the holidays. I'm sure some of my tennis team students would love to do a foursome. I'll book an indoor court and go looking for some partners for us. Doubles first, and then some singles, you and me, later?"

"I'd like that," I said, and it hit both of us at the same time how that could be taken as a double entendre, and we both laughed, knowing for the first time what the other had been thinking.

Daniel was only two years older than I was, and I went with older men—daddy figures. But I hadn't had it in a while and I was a randy dude. And Daniel was one sexy guy.

Dinner was about the last time in the evening that we noticed there were three of us there. Chuck, limited by the wheelchair, wasn't any help in getting the tree trimmed beyond the bottom half, and he had to clean up from dinner anyway. He put Christmas music on, made sure the fireplace was stoked and brought out a couple of rounds of drinks while Daniel and I put decorations on the tree and horsed around.

By the time we were sitting on the sofa, enjoying watching our handiwork on the tree and with the fire in the fireplace and the smooth seasonal music on the stereo, we were mellow from the atmosphere and the flowing liquor—and the comfortable camaraderie. Daniel and I got very comfortable with each other.

"This would be perfect if only . . ." I stopped, not knowing why I'd even begun to say it.

"If what?" Daniel asked. "If we were both gay?"

"Yes," I admitted after hesitating. "Because, sorry, I am."

"Don't be sorry," Daniel said. "And it would be perfect if I was a top?"

"Yes."

"Well, then, I have some good news for you on this perfect evening."

We got quite cozy after that.

There were just the two of us in the room. I don't know if Chuck told us when he withdrew to his room or not, but by then Daniel and I had moved into the touching and kissing phase. The music had reached its end, the fire had died down, and the sounds in the room had flowed into panting, moaning, grunting and groaning, as, trouser- and brief-less, I was bent over the arm of the sofa, on my belly, my head and arms dangling over the side, and Daniel, also pantless, was covering me from behind and above, his hands stretched over the side of the sofa grasping my wrists, his lips buried in my throat, and his erection moving deep inside me.

"Oh, shit, give it to me!" I cried out in suffering ecstasy at a volume that must have conveyed to Chuck in his bedroom, and Daniel gave it to me, tensing and jerking, tensing and jerking, releasing his seed. I'd just come into the inner surface of the sofa arm, which, luckily was covered with wipeable vinyl.

We rested, but only for a few minutes before he was hard again and turned me on my back and I wrapped my legs around his thighs and grasped his shoulder blades and we went at it hard again, me thrusting with my hips as much as he was doing, taking him deep, sending the muscles of my passage walls undulating over his cock, the two of us hungrily fucking each other.

We rolled onto the floor and he was under me now, on his back. I saddled on his cock, pressing my palms into his pecs, and it was up, down, up, down, vigorously riding him, driving to another climax.

We had barebacked. Nothing had been planned. It had been spontaneous. I hadn't had it for a couple of weeks, though, so I'd been more than ready. And Daniel was oh so sexy. And it was different from usual. It had been very athletic, both of us being relatively young—virile and he'd pumped me for nearly a half hour—vigorously, but edging me. We'd get to the brink and he'd back off before coming back on strong. Two young, athletic guys going at each other. I didn't get it this way from the daddies who'd been humping me.