tagGay MaleMy Married Friend's Son

My Married Friend's Son

byDavidPatrick©

(Part One)

I had known "Trick" (short for Patrick) since his third day. I was with Rob when he got the news that the water surrounding his second child, and first son, had broken, and I visited them all in the hospital 72 hours later.

I babysat Trick and his older sister, "Sonny" (short for Jackson), regularly while he was a toddler. Trick was often in a Cardinal red onesie, and I carried him around in my mouth as we crawled through their house. Once we argued for tens of minutes over whether a green vegetable on Veggie Tales was asparagus or broccoli. Neither of us would give in. I was pretty sure I was right.

"Chris, I'm pretty sure it's bwoccly."

"It's asparagus."

Long pause.

"Otay . . . but I think it's bwoccly."

"Think what you want. But, it's asparagus."

He was 3 and I was 25 years older. He gave up. I would not.

Trick had a temper. He lost his bedroom door for slamming it. Shortly after, I was babysitting and had to send Trick to his room. As he started up the stairs, I teased him.

"Do NOT slam your door."

He stopped on a dime, turned, clenched his fists and raged "Chris . . . you . . . know . . . I . . . don't . . . have . . . a . . . door"

Of course, I knew that, which is exactly why I reminded him. His rage made me roar, which only enraged him more.

*****

I watched Trick grow from a chubby toddler to a lean and sinewy teen. By the time he was in high school, he was a uniquely talented baseball player and an equally talented opera singer, which struck me as a very rare combination. He straddled the jock and art world with alacrity.

He was also developing into a stunningly handsome young man. He had wavy brown hair, green eyes that were lower on the outside than on the inside (I referred to them as droopy eyes; I was a sucker for droopy eyes), a strong nose, and a "You know I am going to seduce you, I know I am going to seduce you, and you know I know I am going to seduce you" smile. He moved with the certainty and confidence of someone who knew everything was going to work out for him, he was always going to be the star, and he was always going to get the girl.

He also had a long, muscled body. He was not muscular, but he was muscled, thickest in his ass and his legs. At 18, he was 6 feet 4 and one of the most talked about baseball players in the region, a fleet-footed and strong armed center fielder who hit for power and average for the strongest Legion team around.

He was also an all-state vocalist, specializing in opera, but not limited in range or in style. Whether at the plate or on a stage, he knew he had the goods and that he would deliver them.

Trick rarely made mistakes, but he made a whopper his senior year. While being recruited, he got two girls pregnant at the same time. One was his long-time girlfriend. The other was her best friend, who he was banging behind his girlfriend's back. Trick's virility challenged his parents' nominal Catholicism (as, by the way, did his father's sexual escapades, including with me). In the end, they worshipped at the altar of a baseball scholarship, and the problem was solved discreetly. Trick's only penalty, other than losing his girlfriend and her best friend, was his parents' unwillingness to pay for Yale.

*****

Trick was an All-SEC junior center fielder for Mizzou when his father asked me to stop in Columbia on my way back from St. Louis to ferry him to Kansas City for Thanksgiving break. I was more than twice his age and - five years earlier - had been his father's plaything.

I had seen Trick off and on since he had started at Mizzou. I went to most of the football games with his father, and we usually saw Trick before or after each game, whether for dinner or for a trip for supplies to Wal-Mart. Trick was always very kind to me during those visits. Exceedingly so.

Although it was 27 degrees, Trick sauntered toward my car in gold mesh shorts, a black Mizzou tank top, a scarf wrapped loosely around his neck, and flip flops. His hair was long and pinned on top of his head in a fashinonable man bun. He had not shaved for a few days. He looked like Jon Snow from GoT, only younger and with more hair on his chest. He was what I would call a hipster (I am not sure what his generation called it). He carried a six pack of Natural Light in one hand, a pillow in the other, and had small duffel bag over his shoulder that he carelessly tossed in the back seat.

His black tank top was tight, so it showed off every ripple a 21 year old college athlete with nothing but time to train has. It also revealed his round shoulders, long biceps, and hairy chest. It was the good kind of hairy, straight and thick, but not overgrown.

His gold mesh shorts were baggy, as was the style. His hairy legs were thick. His feet were athletic and well-maintained. But, what I noticed most were his hands. They were big and masculine with perfect nails, trimmed nicely and with full half moons at the base. I could imagine those hands roaming over me. It was going to be a distracting drive.

Once he was settled in my car, he looked at me and smiled. He oozed cool. And sex.

He popped a Natural Light and offered me one. I declined.

"I'm driving."

"So?"

He was carefree and careless. He took a long swig and reclined his chair, tucking his pillow behind his head. It was hard not to stare at him. He reached down, pulled his junk up, and closed his legs. His dick lolled to the left. It was impressive. It looked free, unconstrained even by boxers. And, I was pretty sure he caught me looking at it.

About 30 minutes outside of Columbia, Trick started shifting in his seat. When I glanced over, it was clear he was "road hard." It was also clear he did not care that I knew, as he did nothing to conceal it. I stared at it out of the corner of my eye. It was impressive.

We drove on in silence. He broke it at the Marshall/Sedalia interchange.

"Can I ask you a question," he asked.

"Another one?"

"That's lame. Don't be lame. I know you're not lame, so don't be lame."

Chastened, I told him to "fire away."

"When did you switch from chicks to dicks?"

I was taken aback by his question. And by the casual way he asked it. I answered, "When I was a little older than you."

"What made you switch?"

"I didn't really 'switch.' I always knew I preferred . . . dicks, to use your word. Even as a little boy, I flipped right past the women's underwear section of the Penney's and Sears' catalogs and went right to the men's section. I was thrilled to see a man in tight white underwear. Or a tight baseball uniform. I knew what I was. It just took me a while to accept it. A long while. I was Catholic. It was a different time. You weren't celebrated for being gay. You were ostracized. Or worse. So, I pretended to be something I was not. I hurt a few girls along the way, including one very sweet girl I dated after I started dating guys. I should't have involved her in my turmoil, but I did. It was selfish and self-centered of me, and I broke her heart."

"Times were different then, man. Today, no one cares. You can sleep with whoever you want. No one cares if you're gay or straight or both or neither. At least people my age don't. . . . Mind if I smoke?"

"Yes, I mind. I don't want my car to smell like cigarette smoke."

"I don't smoke cigarettes."

"You want to smoke pot in my car?"

"Sure. The beer's gone."

I looked at the floor. Sure enough, six empty cans were at his feet. I am not sure how I'd missed him downing one after another.

"Aren't your parents going to be pissed if you show up reeking of beer and pot?"

"I'm not really into whether they'll be pissed or not. It's the off-season. I have to be an angel in the Spring. I'm a devil in the Fall."

I was ambivalent about Trick smoking pot in my car. But, I would have had a tough time keeping anything he wanted from him at that point. So, I relented.

He reached in his duffel, grabbed a baggie, and expertly rolled a joint. Once he lit it, he took a deep, long hit and held it in as long as he could before rolling down the window and politely blowing it outside the car. He took two more before he offered the joint to me. I declined.

"I'm still driving."

"I'm still at 'So,'" he said, as he took the joint back and took another deep, long hit. By Lexington, he had it gone. By Odessa, he had another hard on, which his mesh shorts betrayed. I could clearly see the outline of him, including the head. I decided to inquire.

"Why aren't you wearing underwear?"

"I don't like underwear. I prefer the freedom of freeballing. Actually, I prefer the freedom of nudity. I'm naked whenever I can be."

"Doesn't your roommate mind?"

"No, not a bit," Trick replied, winking at me as he did. "I think he quite enjoys it."

Trick's roommate was Mizzou's shortstop, a lean, muscular African-American kid that everyone expected to get drafted the following Spring. His name was Raylan, and he and Trick were far and away the best players among the Tigers' current crop. Trick was good. Raylan was great. And, he was built like a brick shithouse. He looked like he had been chiseled from rock.

Trick pulled his tank top up and used it to wipe his face. When he did, I noticed that his long, straight chest hair concentrated in a trail through his navel and into his shorts.

"You don't trim?" I asked. Everyone did now, even straight guys, except maybe Nev Shulman, the odd guy from that Catfish thing. Trick was not nearly as hairy as Nev, but he was pretty hairy.

"Nah, I like my hair. Most of the team trims, but I don't. They say it makes you look bigger, but I don't need to look bigger. I'm plenty big."

My mouth went dry. From what I had seen during the drive, it was clear he was not exaggerating. But, it struck me as odd that he was being so forward and open about it.

We drove on in silence. Just west of Blue Springs, I asked Trick if he had a girlfriend.

"Nah. We don't really do that anymore. We hook up, but we don't label it 'dating' or 'boyfriend' or 'girlfriend'."

"Do you have a regular hook up?"

"I get more than my share," he said, hitting the "more" hard. "But, I don't focus on anyone in particular."

When we got to Trick's house, he popped a big piece of cinnamon bubble gum in his mouth, dripped Visine in each of his eyes, and thanked me for the ride. I watched his round, athletic ass as he walked to the house. He stopped, turned his head, and caught me watching. He returned to the car and waited for me to roll down the window.

"You in town this weekend?" he asked.

"Yep. I am headed to my sister's tomorrow, but I'll be back Friday morning."

"You wanna get high Friday afternoon?"

I was tempted. I had not gotten high since law school, 25 years earlier. Trick's wink resolved my temptation.

"Sure."

"See you Friday, then," he said, sauntering back toward the house, his bag slung casually over his shoulder. As I watched him, I felt like a predator. Or prey. I just was not sure which.

(Part Two)

Trick knocked on my door at 3:30 on Friday afternoon. I had been waiting since 1, when I had finished furtively cleaning the house and myself. I knew I was being ridiculous; I was acting like I was having a date over for dinner for the first time.

I wanted to look casual and indifferent. No hair product. A loose t-shirt. Gym shorts. But, no matter how hard I tried, I still looked like I was trying. When I looked in the mirror, Anderson Cooper stared back at me. I had been graying since I was 30; at 46, I was silver. I kept myself in reasonable shape, but my middle showed that I drank too much wine and didn't do enough abdominal work.

I had never been cool. I was not going to start today. I looked like I was trying too hard when I wasn't trying at all.

Trick stunned me when I opened the door. A plastic headband held his hair away from his face, which still was not shaved. He had that same scarf wrapped around his neck, had on the same blank tank top, and had on loose, ripped jeans that were tight enough to show off his body but loose enough to look casual and old.

He looked like the lead singer of a rock band. He oozed coolness and indifference and sex as he nodded and sauntered past me. He moved with the complete, unfettered confidence of a big penis. My freshman year college roommate had the same confidence. He was average looking, but he owned the room when he walked in. He was swinging a weapon, he knew it, and his demeanor betrayed it.

My dick was a little better than fine, 6.5 inches when hard, but nice looking. But, I moved like it was small. I lived with the diffidence of someone who never quite measured up, for whatever reason. I had since I could remember. I was short (only 5'7", stretched out completely), I sat in the front row, I was never late, and I was always harried. I was the opposite of Trick.

Trick plopped down on the sofa, pulled a bong out of his bag, and prepared to fire it up. I was surprised he moved right to that. I went to the kitchen and poured us two glasses of vodka, adding a bit of Sprite to his and a bit of ice to mine. I returned to the living room to see him take a big hit.

I put Trick's drink in front of him, and he downed half of it. He then unwound the scarf from around his neck and tossed it at me. "Yours to keep," he said. "A souvenir."

"Of what?"

"Our first date."

I was stunned. I had not considered that this could be a date. Sure, the questions about "when did you switch" during the car ride had me wondering, but there was a chasm between wondering whether Trick was gay and thinking he was gay and interested in me.

He then pulled the black tank top over his head, baring his hairy, muscled chest. "I hope you don't mind," he said." "But, I packed poorly. I have only the tank, and it's a little tight."

"I can get you a shirt."

"You can if you want, I guess. But, I'm happy without one."

I liked the view of Trick's hairy chest and path to paradise, so I casually ignored my offer. He offered me the bong, and I took it. We spent the next hour drinking vodka and smoking pot. By 5, I was drunk and high. So was Trick.

"You hungry?" I asked.

"Headed there. Pot makes me hungry . . . and horny."

"We can solve your hunger problem," I said, as I headed to the kitchen. Trick followed. I got out my wok, got out chicken and vegetables, and started cutting it all up for a stirfry. Trick moved in to help, and his assistance was titillating. I may have been too attentive, but it seemed like he touched my arms or back or shoulders every chance he could.

I poured more drinks. Trick retrieved the bong from the living room. We drank and smoked while we cooked. I was lost by the time I served the stirfry. And, I no longer wanted food. I wanted something else.

Halfway through dinner, Trick stood up, unbuttoned his jeans, and stepped out of them. As opposed to our drive two days before, he was wearing underwear, red boxer briefs that betrayed everything they were supposed to conceal. I looked at him, and my mouth went dry.

Again, I felt both like predator and prey.

I was not the predator.

Trick sat back down. "That's better," he said as he resumed eating. When he was finished, he got the bong again, took a huge hit, walked toward me, and lowered his face to mine. I was not sure what was happening when he cupped his hand around the back of my neck, placed his lips to mine, opened his mouth, and exhaled all the smoke he had been holding into my mouth.

His lips were soft but firm. Initially taken aback, I recovered in time to breathe the smoke in. Trick's lips did not leave mine. His tongue entered my mouth. I masked my surprise by letting my tongue meet his. We kissed, for the first time. When the kiss was over, I let the smoke escape my lungs.

I was not sure what was going on, but I was sure what I wanted to be going on. All of my self-control was being challenged and eroding.

I got up and started to clean the kitchen. Trick got up and helped. While I was washing the wok, Trick reached around me from behind and kissed the back of my neck. I finally got it. Somehow, someway, this hot 21 year old all-SEC baseball player wanted me. I turned around. He lowered his face to mine and kissed me again. I kissed him back, moving my hands up and down his smooth, hairless back. As the kiss endured, I moved my hands to his chest. We kept kissing.

It was an awesome kiss. I wanted it to go on and on, although I felt shitty that it was happening. I knew his father/my best friend/my former lover would hate that kiss with the white hot intensity of a thousand suns, but I also knew I'd have ceded that friendship to that kiss every time. It was that magical.

When the kiss was over, Trick pulled back and looked at me. "I've wanted to do that for a long time," he said.

I was gobsmacked. "Really?" I asked.

"Yep. Since I was a kid, and I watched you play ball with my dad. The way you moved. The way you smiled. The way you talked to me, like you really cared about what I had to say. The way you treated me like an equal, not like a kid. I wanted you. I just didn't know it."

"You were a kid."

"A kid with a hard on. I jacked off thinking of you all through high school."

"You should have had better fantasies. I'm an old man."

"You're an older man. Which is hot. And which I like. A lot."

He lowered his mouth to mine again. We kissed for a long time. I could not believe what was happening. Trick was 21 and as hot as he could be. I was 46 and had gone fallow. I was living a fantasy, but it was fraught.

We kissed and kissed and kissed. I wanted to stop, but couldn't. I had not made out with someone for at least a decade. I was 46 going on 16. I was at a high school party, surprised to be kissing the BMOC.

As we kissed, Trick pressed his body to mine. I could feel his hard-on against my stomach. I wanted him, but I knew I could not have him. He was my best friend's son. He was less than half my age.

He pressed into me. My arms around him, I pulled him into me as hard as I could.

He broke the kiss and whispered "I want to fuck you" into my forehead. I wanted him to fuck me. So much. But, I knew he shouldn't.

"Trick, that's not going to happen."

"Why not?"

"Your dad would kill me."

"He's not going to watch."

"Still."

"And I'm not going to tell him."

"Still."

Trick kissed me again. I kissed him back. I had to, even if it was wrong. Our tongues twirled. He tasted of pot and beer and stirfry. His whiskers tickled my face. His hard-on tried to pierce my stomach.

"Are you sure I can't fuck you?"

"I am. I'm not sure what this is, but I need to take it slow and steady."

"I'm 21. Slow and steady really isn't my thing."

We parted again.

"Where do your parents think you are?" I asked.

"I'm 21. I don't tell them where I'm going when I go."

"You should probably go. I'm not strong enough for you to stay."

"I don't want you to be strong. I'm horny. I want you to make me come."

"I can't do that."

"Then, I'm going to make myself come."

Trick slipped back into his jeans and headed toward the door. I followed him. At the door, he kissed me gently and whispered, "you're going to regret letting me leave more than you'd have regretted letting me stay."

I knew he was right. But, I let him leave anyway.

(Part Three)

My doorbell rang at 7 the next morning. I had not slept well and was groggy as I pulled on sweatpants and an old sweatshirt and headed downstairs. I opened the door and was unsurprised to see Trick pacing on the porch, covered in sweat. He had been running, and he was stopping by my house on his way back to his.

"What's up?" I asked.

"I was running by and decided to stop to see if I was right?"

"About what?"

"Your regret." He smiled as he said it.

"Short term, sure. Long term, I dunno."

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