Chapter 7
Dad.
Is that the word you were looking for, Ace ?
And I knew damned well that it was.
There was no question.
I had engaged in a homosexual act with my own father.
Incest, it was called.
The most repulsive, most unacceptable of all man's vile actions.
From among a long list of traditional no-no's.
And yet, I had done it.
Without hesitation.
Hesitation?
Hah!
That was a real grin, that was!
I had gone after it eagerly.
It was not a question of hesitation but of how fast I could get on it.
It was my fault, all of it.
And yet, was it?
Dad was a manipulator.
An expert manipulator.
A manipulator of long standing.
And I was uneducated, a mere high school graduate, and of recent vintage, at that.
I had never been anywhere, never done anything.
What chance had I stood against Dad?
None.
And yet, and yet.
There could be a million "and yets".
And not one of them could change the fact of what had happened.
And it was all so gratuitous, so unnecessary.
We were a couple of knockout studs.
Both of us had all it took to get anyone we really wanted interested in us, man or woman.
Dad had an active sex life, and mine could be no less so.
So that it was not a question of turning to each other for lack of something better.
But Dad had gone out of his way, had in fact contrived a scheme of considerable complexity and elaboration to make exactly what had happened—happen.
It all works, doesn't it, Dad? I thought, bitterly.
You want something, you make it happen.
Never mind if you should want it, why you should want it, you want it.
And that's good enough for you.
Never a qualm, never a problem, never a hesitation.
To think about it is to do it and do it successfully.
How sweet it is!
And now, I'm so fucked up in the head that I'm feeling bad and I have no idea why.
Except that I can't stay here forever, washing off my cock.
There were at least three other people waiting to use the John.
I dried the heavy equipment.
"I, uh—I guess I'd better be running along, now," I said.
"Clint, it was a real pleasure.
"We'll be seeing each other at the gym, I hope."
"And after," Clint said, shaking my hand.
"Larry, thanks for the chow and the use of the hall."
"My pleasure. Any time."
And I ignored Dad as I dressed.
Stay or leave, Dad.
Or drop dead.
Aloud, I said nothing, giving a general wave as I departed.
I would leave.
I would have to.
I could stay here no longer.
I didn't know what was inside Dad's head.
But I did know that he had not gone to such elaborate lengths for a single incident.
I mean, I thought I knew where he was coming from.
It made sense.
I even went along with it, including his manipulation of me.
He was gay, he suspected that I either was or could be, and he took steps to clarify a situation that was of vital interest to him.
Okay.
That part, I understood.
That particular barrier had been eliminated and hoorah for our side.
So far, so good.
But now, it became apparent that that was a secondary objective.
That was not even the point.
I got the feeling that he would not have minded if I were not attracted to other men.
Because all that did was to make things simpler, easier for him.
To have—me.
That's what it had been about all along.
He wants me.
But on what basis?
Simple body to body?
Or was it something more?
Was he getting ready to abandon his promiscuity, to enter into a one on one relationship, with me the one in question?
He had another think coming, if that was the case!
He always had so fucking much to say, him and his logic, but he had nevertheless chosen this approach to, to—this?
Why?
Because he had been a winner, of sorts, up to this point.
The logic was indisputable.
At least not by me.
It was a simple exercise in identification.
Was I Jack Straight or Jack Gay?
And I had picked one from Column B.
So what?
Facts are facts.
And I was bent that way.
And we could all live happily ever after.
Except.
Still, I could see his point.
Perhaps I wanted to.
Or a part of me did, at least.
What if?
What if I had been ready, prepared to accept this, this ... thing he, we had done intellectually, but not with the old bod?
In that case, it would have been the same situation as accepting his sexuality, once removed.
I might have understood, but it would be only with my rational mind.
Emotionally, physically, nothing.
So that he and I would have dated like crazy.
There would not be an ass hole or a cock at the gym worth having that one or both of us would not have ended up sampling.
We would have been buddies, roomies.
In fact, for one night—last night, to be exact—I thought that was what was happening.
We would have been like the protagonists of some situation comedy.
Except, of course, that all our dates would be men.
But there was more to it than that.
At least, that was how it appeared to me now.
I was not, I could not be simply one more piece of ass, one more number to him.
Nor he to me.
It could not work that way, not with father and son.
At least, I did not think it could.
I shook my head.
It was all so damned confusing.
I gotta get an education, I told myself.
Hey, I was no dummy in high school.
And I even used the library.
I read.
Much to my father's deprecatory amusement.
"The hell you read that shit for, son? Ain't nuthin' in there gonna do you any good."
But now, I only wished that I had read more.
I wished that I knew where to begin with things like psychology, philosophy, sociology—stuff like that.
So that I could carry one end of the conversation with Dad.
So that I would stand a chance, a prayer of questioning him, of arguing with him.
Oh, I know you, Dad!
I know you very well, especially after the last two days!
And I can hardly wait.
I can hardly wait to hear the chain of logic that makes what we did all right.
And, no doubt, more than all right.
Acceptable.
No, make that desirable.
Something to be done, again and again.
That what you've got in mind, Dad?
I'll just bet it is!
I took a shower and went to bed.
Exhausted, I slept soundly.
And I had no idea when Dad got home.
But he did.
Because, next morning, I could hear him calling,
"Breakfast, Jack! Come and get it!"
And we ate.
I was actually very hungry.
We sat there in our robes, father and son, having the family breakfast.
Or were we still father and son?
And if not, then what were we?
What had we become?
Had there been a transformation yesterday?
I was waiting.
Waiting for the non-philosopher over there, the master logician, to begin his diatribe.
Or, more accurately, his monologue.
He did not.
Instead, he remained silent, as we loaded the dishes into the dishwasher.
"Ad'll be in tomorrow's paper," he reminded me.
"That's, uh ... good. I guess."
"There a problem of some kind, Jack?"
"Guess not."
"Well, then, if you're sure.
"Because, you know, Jack, all I tried to do was to break down the barrier—"
"I know, Dad."
"Then what?
"I mean, if there's some comment, some criticism you have of me, I'd like to hear it.
"It's true, I'm not perfect, but I'm not unreasonable, either."
"No, Dad, I'll give you that much, all right.
"When it comes to logic and reason, you're in there with the best of 'em, I'm sure."
"You see? That's just what I'm getting at.
"Your words say one thing, your tone of voice another."
"Real perceptive, Dad."
"Yeah, but I'm still not getting at the problem.
"So what is it?"
"Well, if you don't know—"
"Oh! I get it now! You mean about what went on last night!"
Brilliant, Sherlock.
I can hardly wait to hear what comes next.
"You think that there was something wrong in what we did, right?"
"I think," I began, clearing my throat, "I think that I've been manipulated to get me into a certain position."
"Uh huh.
"And so you have."
"Okay then, Dad.
"Suppose you just level with me.
"Instead of going on maneuvers, why don't you just tell me what you want from me?"
"I can't."
"You, you ... can't?"
"That's right.
"Because I don't know.
"I don't know, but I'd like to find out."
"Now you're losing me."
"I'm losing myself.
"But let me see if I can't try to explain.
"I owe you that much, I guess, since you asked."
"If I hadn't asked?"
He shrugged.
"I would have let our bodies do the talking.
"I'd have let them do the discovering.
"Because, in the end, I figure that's the way it's gotta happen anyway."
"The way what's gotta happen?"
"That's what I don't know.
"Let's put it this way.
"Larry. Do you want to see him again?"
"Not, not ... particularly."
"Clint?"
"Him, yes.
"Yeah, Dad, I do."
"Okay.
"So far, so good.
"Now, how many times more do you want to see Clint?"
I looked at him, surprised.
"How the hell should I know?
"Once, for sure.
"After that, I'd hafta see."
"Exactly.
"There's something about Clint that qualifies him to be of further interest to you.
"Whereas, with Larry, there isn't.
"Different guys, different degrees of attraction."
"Right. So?"
"So I've looked at you with, shall we say, sex-colored glasses for three years now."
"As what, Dad?
"With all the guys you could have, with all the guys you're seeing, why me?"
He shrugged.
"By absolute standards, why not you?
"You're handsome, built, hung."
"And so are you."
"All the more reason not to reject my advances.
"Or, for that matter, I yours.
"As we did not, yesterday."
"That was then, this is now."
"Just so.
"But I gather—make that I know—that yesterday is what's bothering you.
"It bothers you that it happened.
"We can't help that.
"And I did plan that it would happen, so that's on me.
"You can love me for it or hate me for it, it can't be undone."
"I know that."
"But what you want to know—"
"What I want to know, and I'm not sure I can trust you to give me the answer, is why it bothers me so much.
"We'll talk about your problem, which is where you are trying to lead us, after we get why I am so bugged by this thing straightened out."
"Very well.
"If, like me, you totally reject society's moral standards, the answer is that there's no reason at all for you to be, as you put it, bugged.
"If you do not, that is, if you make society's conventions and judgments your own, then the answer is to be found within that moral framework.
"That choice is yours.
"I can't make it for you."
"And I don't know enough to make it for myself."
"No, and I suppose that's my fault too.
"I seem to have imposed my standards on you, but not completely.
"On the other hand, you have never been exposed to opposing views. Your bad feelings are those that have 'rubbed off on you from society itself."
"Which may or may not be correct," I said, "but which probably are."
Dad smiled.
"Whatever works for you," he said.
"Meanwhile," I continued, "we're into what works for you, right?"
He shrugged.
"Hey, anything you don't like, you don't do.
"You're a big boy now, remember?"
I looked down.
He was right.
I had been doing nothing but copping out, since this whole thing started, casting about for where to place the' blame.
The beer.
The heat of the moment.
My father.
When it was me.
It had been me, right along.
Oh, Dad had been behind the program, all right.
But nobody had twisted my arm.
Not physically, anyway.
So, I guessed it was time to take the bull by the horns.
I had jumped on his back on my own, so I guessed the best thing for me to do was to ride all the way to the end.
Unless, of course, the bull threw me.
But that was a chance I was willing to take.
Because I would have it coming.
If I didn't have enough sense to know what I wanted, I would have only myself to blame.
"Okay, Dad," I said, looking straight at him, "we'll play it your way.
"What's next on the menu?"
He looked at me, not saying anything.
Finally, "You sure that's what you want?"
"Oh no, Dad! No you don't.
"I see what you're up to.
"I am going along, but I am not volunteering."
"Okay."
"It oughtta be. Either way, you win."
"So I do."
"And?"
"And I'll let you know."
The gym was not crowded.
It was early.
But Clint was there.
And I was glad to see him.
And the feeling was mutual.
"Hey! Gladja showed up."
"Likewise, I'm sure."
And he started to say something else, but changed his mind.
Instead, "Guess we'd better hit it, huh?"
"It's what makes us us."
"That's for sure."
And we did.
And only when it was over, when we were in the shower, did he say what was on his mind.
And apparently had been, ever since last night.
"Somethin' we didn't get to do the other night," he said.
"I know."
"Like to grab some lunch and we can make up for lost time?" he suggested.
"I'm all for that," I replied.
"And for that," I added, picking up the head of his heavy equipment.
He returned the compliment.
And we started to come up.
And broke it up, laughing.
As a thin man stepped into the shower, casting an envious eye at us as we exited.
"You sure Larry won't mind?" I asked.
"Of course he will, being left out like this.
"But what can he do? He's out of town.
"And what am I supposed to do? Keep it holstered until he gets back?"
"Good point," I said.
"He's getting to be impossible anyway," Clint said.
"Why is that?"
"He's so ... possessive.
"I'm seriously considering other living arrangements."
And he paused in the living room, Larry's living room, looking at me.
"Ya know," he said, "it's too bad you live with Bill.
"Because you and I would make one helluva team in the sack."
"Maybe something can be done about that."
"I was gonna say, I got a lotta nerve talking like that, when for all I know you could be in love with the guy.
"But I'm glad I did, now that I know I've got a shot."
"Well, it's all very tentative," I replied, uneasy at the thought of actually moving out.
"Hey, take your time.
"No big hurry.
"It's not unbearable around here, not yet, anyway.
"Just more and more ... inconvenient."
"I know the feeling."
It was true, I did.
A growing sense of uneasiness, of nameless discomfort.
As though the very air at home were somehow charged with a kind of negative electricity.
Which I suspected were Dad's labyrinthine thoughts, or perhaps his desires, which he had not yet communicated to me.
I loved it, this waiting for the other shoe to drop.
But there was no such tension here and now, as we stripped.
And we were in bed together, alone this time.
And it was ever so much better, so much more relaxed, so much more intimate.
So that we could take our time, fingers and hands exploring each others' muscles.
And slowly, unhurriedly, reversing our bodies in the bed.
And examining at close range each others' cocks and balls.
And putting the heads of each others' cocks in our mouths.
And slowly, gently, thoroughly sucking each other to full erection.
And lingering over the blowjobs, taking our time, bobbing up and down.
And wrapping our tongues around each others' thick batons.
As we sucked and devoured, sucked and devoured.
And gave each other deep throat.
Because we were in each other's heads all the way, fucking each other in the mouth at a leisurely pace, as though we could take forever.
And when we finally came, we were both careful to take our loads in our mouths.
And swallow them slowly.
Before joining each other on the pillows.
And napping, cradled in each others' arms.
And waking up with hard-ons, remembering to wash them thoroughly before going down on each other again.
Until, breaking away, not saying a word, Clint went down on knees and elbows.
And I found that I wanted his ass hole as badly as I had the first time.
So then, I thought, it's possible.
It's possible to want the same person the same way more than once.
And if more than once, then why not again and again?
It was possible with two people.
And a horrible thought struck me.
Was this what Dad had in mind for me, for us?
Because, if it was, he had another think coming.
Because I wanted this guy more than I wanted Dad, more than I had wanted him, even yesterday.
Yes, I wanted Clint.
But even now, I could not say how much.