Chapter 5
"Feeling better this morning?"
I looked at Dad.
He was right to be concerned.
By several standards, he had played a dirty trick on me.
Even by his own logic, he did not fare too well.
And he seemed to know this.
Hence the question.
"Better than what?"
Dad shrugged.
"Sometimes," he began, "sometimes a man finds out something about himself, something he didn't know, maybe didn't even suspect, something that the world doesn't think too highly of, it's, well, a bit of a downer."
"On the other hand," I replied, "the truth can set you free."
"Right. And so can prune juice."
And we laughed at his shallow witticism.
"Seriously," he continued, "how you handling it?
"I mean, are you disappointed in yourself, disappointed in me?"
"None of the above," I said.
"Well, that's good, then."
And there was silence over the bacon and eggs and orange juice and vitamin pills.
As though neither of us knew what we were supposed to say next.
"I've, uh, decided you were right about getting help," he said.
"Oh?"
"Yeah. Obviously, I can't leave you at the gym by yourself.
"Look at the trouble you get into!"
We laughed again.
"Speaking of which," I said,
"You must know all the hot numbers there."
"A few," he admitted.
"And, of those you know, how many of them know that I'm your son?"
"None," he mumbled.
I made as though I had not heard.
Since we were sharing everything, how about some of the awkwardness?
"What?"
He cleared his throat.
"I said, uh ... none.
"Hey, if I got you for a kid, how old does that make me?"
"When is the truth not true, huh, Dad?"
"Hey, what's in a calendar, right?"
"Right."
I can be generous, when the occasion demands.
He had a point.
Those whose only virtue was youth had a tendency to look at the calendar as their only source of triumph, not recognizing in it their ultimate and inevitable defeat.
Nevertheless, even they could be numbers.
For a time.
So that it did not pay to alienate them.
I would not crab Dad's act.
"Does Larry know?" I asked.
"He probably suspects."
"Is that bad?"
Dad shrugged.
"Fuck Larry, all right?
"He doesn't exactly win any popularity contests at the gym anyway, all right?
"It's bad enough I—never mind."
"Bad enough you owe him one?" I completed.
"Something like that."
I grinned.
"Serves you right," I said.
"That it does, that it does," he sighed, agreeing with me.
"So. When are you going to pay off?"
"Tonight," he said.
"My, my. Time does indeed appear to be of the essence."
"Hey, at least I'll get him out of the way.
"Better that than having it hanging over me.
"Unless, of course—"
He let it trail off, looking at me.
"Oh, no!" I said.
"No way in hell, pal!
"You take care of your own mess.
"There's a whole new world out there waiting for me.
"I'm not sure it's what I want or what it's all about, but I do know that Larry is history."
"Wish I could say the same," he said.
"Hey, you made your bed, now lie in it."
"Better mine than his," he sighed.
"Unfortunately, that's not how it works," I pointed out.
"I'll live."
"When's the help coming?"
"Puttin' an ad in the paper this weekend.
"Guess we'd best be on our way."
"I'll take my own car, Dad."
"I figured."
"Hey, I could get lucky tonight, you know?"
"Glad one of us can."
The first thing, I reminded myself in the locker room, is the workout.
Nothing, nothing, nothing is to come between me and that.
Afterward, we'll see.
And maybe not every night, either.
Because bodybuilding is the love affair a man has with himself.
And, in the end, as Dad himself pointed out many times, ourselves is all we have.
More heavy shit from the non-philosopher.
So I worked out.
We worked out.
As though this were any other evening.
As though yesterday had never happened.
Except that Larry was here.
And working out in earnest, just like us.
He had a partner.
Older, he was.
But with a full head of hair, straight, dark, crew-cut.
And powerful.
A bodybuilder's exercises at a power lifter's poundage's.
"Wow!" Larry would exclaim, from time to time.
Or, "Look at that!"
Or even, "Unbelievable!"
Finally, Dad could stand it no longer.
"Uh, Larry, do you think we could make do with a simple 'ta-da!' at the end of every one of your friend's lifts?"
And the crewcut laughed, revealing a pleasant smile, dissipating the initial impression created by his brutal, heavy jaw.
"Oh! Sorry. How rude of me," Larry said.
"Guys, this is Clint.
"Clint, Bill and, uh, Jack."
We shook hands with the new boy on the block.
"Hey, you guys look a lot alike," Clint said.
"You must be—"
"Cousins," Dad said, quickly.
"Kissing cousins, Larry added, "as it turns out."
And he giggled, as Clint looked back and forth between us, puzzled but grinning good-naturedly.
"Yeah, well, we got a lot of iron ta push over the next two hours, so we can't be standin' around jaw-jackin'," Dad said. "Right, Jack?"
"Right, uh ... Bill."
And we did.
Except that I kept catching Clint's eye.
Or vice versa.
Assuming that all that bulk under the sweats wasn't flab, and, based on the weights that Clint was lifting, that hardly seemed likely, I had the feeling that my second experience since coming out of the cave of my mind was definitely about to take place tonight.
Except that Clint seemed to be with Larry.
Which wasn't too unlikely, since Clint was clearly from out of town, not having been in the gym before, to my knowledge, while equally clearly having put in hard time at a gym somewhere else.
So that he could very well be Larry's house guest.
Which could be rather awkward, if what Dad, pardon, Bill, had said about tonight was true.
Unless, of course, Larry were to let go of it, give ... Bill a pass.
On the other hand, if I were to take Clint out for the evening, that could solve everybody's problem.
And on that happy note, I had an excellent work-out.
The four of us hit the showers together.
And Clint did not disappoint.
Of the four of us, he had the best size, Dad the best overall combination of size and definition, and me the best potential.
Larry looked as good as he was probably ever going to.
Which was not all that bad, except that he would never win any contests.
Except, perhaps, the ones that he and people like him—like us—entered every day.
Larry was a long way off from an empty bed.
Given the right combination of horniness and the lack of any alternative, I might consider going with him again myself.
But Clint was a bull.
With his thick neck and thick but muscular body and limbs, he looked like a minotaur with a crewcut.
And his cock went with the rest of him.
It was long and thick, with a bulging knob dangling below.
And the whole thing swung heavily as it moved.
As did mine, apparently.
Because he was looking at mine with the same attention I was giving his.
Of us all, only Larry had the beginnings of a hard-on, in obvious anticipation of his getting together with Dad tonight.
Dad and Larry noticed the chemistry developing between Clint and me.
And Larry said, "I have an idea!
"What say the four of us go to my place?
"I've got plenty of steak and veggies, beer in the fridge, and a big, big bed.
"Anybody interested?" Clint shrugged.
"I live there, at least temporarily," he said.
"And I understand that you and Bill are on for tonight anyway.
"And I'm sure that Jack and I will think of some' thing."
We all laughed.
And, as though to emphasize the affinity of our happy quartet, a couple of regular guys stepped into the shower, looking around, hesitating, as though they would as soon come back later, when there was not quite so much abundant beef around to show them how outclassed they were.
We said nothing.
Not even to each other.
An act of kindness, to avoid emphasizing the fact that we were the inhabitants of another, better world, the world to which they aspired but would probably never attain?
And it brought home to me the fact that, in the hierarchy of desirable states of being, there were worse things I could be than a man who desired other men.
Because it was not just any man that I desired.
At least, I did not think so.
Rather, I was a man of taste, a man of qualifications.
True, they were all strictly physical, but, as Dad pointed out many times, what else was there in this world?
So we finished up, drying off and dressing very quickly.
And I grinned, as we left the gym and I saw that all four of us each had his own car, in anticipation, in declaration of being fully independent, fully mobile.
So that it was a mini-convoy that made its way over to Larry's condo.
And the doorman/security guard must have thought that a bodybuilder's convention or something was in town.
That, or the middle defense line of a pro football team.
We trooped to the elevator and rode up in silence.
Silence.
Except that the glances between Clint and me said it all.
I want you.
And it was beautiful.
Because it was wanting and knowing that we did and that there was only the physical commitment and nothing else.
Perhaps our brains, our minds would never get to know each other.
And that was all for the best.
What you see is what you get.
And that was good enough for me, should be good enough for anybody.
So that the so-called intellectual considerations we recognized for what • they were—bullshit, designed to compensate for physical lacks and shortcomings.
Except that we had none.
Oh, we were not perfect.
We had a ways to go, perhaps even a long ways to go before perfection would be achieved or declared, by ourselves or by others.
But we were well on our way.
And the interest and intent were there.
As well as the results.
No, we were neither beginners nor intermediates.
We were definitely advanced and, had life dealt us slightly different hands, could have been professionals.
And it was going to happen.
What you see is what you get.
That's all that counts, if what you see is what you want.
And it was.
Definitely.
As Dad and Larry hit the kitchen, getting the supper ready.
There was no room in the narrow space for four hulks.
So Clint and I sat down in front of the TV.
And we did not speak.
Because that was bullshit also.
"Where you from?"
Who cares.
I'm here and you're here.
"What do you do?"
Who cares.
We're at play, not at work and I'm sure that neither of us is writing a book.
So we said nothing, content to watch some action adventure crime series hero do his thing.
And casting side glances at each other.
But not touching.
Because that was bullshit too.
I was not in love with the guy, or he with me.
It was lust at first sight, not love.
Body to body, communicating through the eyes.
And knowing that the sack was what counted.
The rest was meaningless, unnecessary, and even false.
"Okay, guys, it's ready!" Dad announced.
"Sorry about the red meat," Larry said, "but the fish is frozen solid."
"No sweat," Clint said.
"Red meat once a week can't kill us."
We could have had pasta, but what the hell.
It had been a while since I had a decent steak.
And these were more than just decent.
And the salad, with vinegar, was crisp and delicious.
And the beer—of which I carefully limited myself to one bottle—tasted better than it should have.
I would have to watch that.
And do without on every possible occasion.
For Clint, I wanted to be cold sober, neither drunk nor in that middle state in which I told myself that I was.
After supper, Larry put everything in the dishwasher and started it.
"Well," Larry said,
"I'm sure we all know our way to the bedroom by now."
And we filed into the bedroom, where we stripped without hesitation.
And Dad paired off with Larry as Clint and I got into the bed on the opposite side together.
And Larry was certainly correct in his contention that the big bed would accommodate the four of us, and with room to spare.
We rolled back the covers like a maintenance crew un-tarping a ball field before the big game.
And now, I was in Clint's arms and he in mine, as we idly played with each others' cocks.
As Larry and Dad, next to us, did the same.
And I realized that, if I was not very careful, I would actually see my own father in action with another guy.
And I found that rather odd and vaguely disturbing, for no discernable reason.
But I quickly put the thought out of my head.
I had better things to think about.
Or, more accurately, react to.
Because now Clint was turning me over, onto my stomach.
And sliding down, down, down in the bed.
And now, he was wriggling his thick body between my legs.
And I felt his hot breath on the cheeks of my ass, an instant before he parted them, spreading them wide with both hands.
And his mouth was on my bung, his tongue rolling round and round on it as he chewed it gently.
And I rose onto knees and elbows, giving him a better target, reacting as though I had been doing this for years.
Encouraged by this, Clint quickly jammed his tongue into my ass hole.
Which took it quite easily as I relaxed my anal sphincter.
And he was rimming me thoroughly, doing things with his powerful tongue to stretch and explore, lubricate and prepare.
And now, I was ready.
And so, obviously, was he.
As he stood on his knees behind me and, using the one hand spreading technique with thumb and fingers, with the other guided the bulging head of his huge cock toward the target.
And now his knob was touching my bung.
And now it was buttoned inside it.
And my rectum welcomed its guest.
And now he was pushing forward.
And I could feel my cock go stiff, hard as rock, below me.
As though his cock had filled mine like a glove from the inside.
And he was stretching and filling me with his vibrant cock.
And now, it was moving in and out, generating those exquisite sensations of lascivious, intimate arousal peculiar to getting fucked in the ass.
And fucking me he was.
And there was no technique, no cleverness involved here.
There was animal strength, animal power, unrestrained.
Clint was operating, working in the full confidence of his might.
He did not worry about things like holding back, staying power, sophisticated things to be done with hands and mouth and hips.
These things were not for him.
They were not necessary.
He was who and what he was and that was enough and more than enough.
At least, for me it was.
Not that his technique was mine.
(Look who's talking, will you? My second time with a guy and already I have taste in techniques. Must be my natural talent making itself known.)
I would want to hold back, to prolong, to be artistic, versatile.
But Clint was built, was made for doing exactly what he was doing.
And so, ass high in the air, I opened myself up to him, totally relaxed, taking everything he had to offer.
And it was not until I turned my head to one side and opened my eyes that I realized that Dad was right beside me, in an identical position.
And looking at me, face red, eyes glazed with pleasure, as I'm sure was the case with me.
"Aaah!" I said, a fresh surge of delightful sensation forcing the exclamation of pleasure out of me.
"Oooh!" he said, a fresh surge of delightful sensation forcing the exclamation of pleasure out of him.
Fucking Larry!
He was doing this on purpose, probably matching Clint, stroke for stroke.
Forming a bond between Clint and himself.
Which was bullshit.
There was no bond.
Except that Larry was trying to create one.
But I did not think that Clint would buy it.
He did not need such body-mind games.
In his case, that would be gilding the lily.
He did not need anyone or anything, actually.
That was the message my body was getting from his.
I am complete, in and of myself.
I am using you, using you well, and hope you are doing the same with me.
But I really don't care, he seemed to be saying.
It doesn't matter.
What matters is me, me, me!
And the sensations that I generate within myself, using your body.
And I thought, this is as it should be.
Because sex was in the giving and in the getting.
And one was part of the other, one fed the other, in a closed loop.
So that sex was the one area in which, by being selfish, you gave.
And being totally selfish, you gave your all.
And so it was with Clint and himself, and with Clint and me.
And so it would be with me and myself, and with Clint and me, when I was on the so-called giving end of things.
And now, he was riding me all the way.
And it was as though a part of my consciousness was within intimate contact with his monster cock as it pistoned in and out of me.
So that my bowels could feel the sensations that shot through him like bolts of prolonged sexual lightning.
And I was feeling for the both of us.
And it was delightful, exquisite, somehow complete.
And now, I could feel the heat of his body, his breath, as he bent to his work, building toward his climax.
And I glanced at Dad, and could see by the look of ecstasy on his face that Larry, mocking, imitating Larry, was deliberately keeping pace with Clint.
And that conniving, affected Larry would probably time his climax to coincide with Clint's.
To store up the occasion, the memory.
So that he could say to him, some time in the future, "Remember the time when ..."
But—and I don't know why I even thought I could do this—I was going to fuck Larry up.
And so, I began to flex the sleeve of my rectum, milking Clint's cock, which was already right at the edge.
And I felt him coming inside me, the thick, hot spurts creating still more thrills within me.
And I knew, looking at Dad's face, that Larry had lost the pace.