Chapter 8
"Been to the gym, huh?"
"Right, Dad."
"Gotta get over there myself in a while.
"Meet anybody ... interesting?"
"Clint."
"You and him, uh ..."
"Yes."
"I see."
"Problem with that?"
"No, guess not."
"Larry's outta town."
"Big deal."
"Clint's not happy."
"Also big deal."
"He's looking for a change."
"That was fast."
"Yeah, well, I guess Larry's company wears thin fast."
"I guess.
"But, uh ... how did it come up?"
"Just casual conversation."
"Why tell you?"
I shrugged.
"Got his feelers out, I guess.
"Determining his options.
"Bod like that, he's got plenty of those."
"You give him any ... encouragement?"
"Sort of.
"I left it open.
"Why?"
"Oh, nothing.
"Just, you're new to this game.
"Hate to see you close off your own options too soon."
"I'd kinda hate to see that myself, Dad."
And we looked at each other.
Finally, I spoke.
"You sort of left our conversation this morning hanging, Dad.
"I mean, it was like I gave you a green light and you sat there reviving, your engine."
"Yeah, well, that was hardly the time of day to .be discu—"
"Dad, we've gone hunting and you showed me how to lead the game.
"We've gone fishing and you taught me how to play the line.
"But I'm a man, Dad, not game or a fish.
"You don't have to lead me or play me on a fishing line.
"You don't have to wait for the right moment with me.
"I don't have a right moment.
"Or a wrong, one, for that matter.
"So what is it?"
"You want me to sleep with you, is that it?"
"It's a start."
"A start."
He sighed.
"I don't know where my feelings for you are leading me.
"I really don't.
"I know that I want you, but I don't know how much of you I want, how much of you I can have, how much you'd be willing to give of yourself to me.
"It's something I—we—have to work out.
"We have to give it a chance, you know?
"See where it takes us."
I smiled.
"Right, Dad."
Thinking, I've got your number now, Dad.
Because I knew him.
I knew his kind.
I should, after all—I was the same way.
Relationships were like packaged food.
You ate them, whatever it was—cupcakes, potato chips, candy—one at a time.
But whatever it was, it always ended the same way.
You threw away the empty bag.
Dad was telling me the truth, a part of it, anyway.
He didn't know where his relationship with me was leading.
But he did know how it would end.
A week?
A month?
Several months?
That was what he didn't know.
But one thing he did know, one thing he was not prepared to tell me about, was the fact that, sooner or later, end it would.
This was not a forever thing with him.
No relationship was, ever.
Not for Dad.
I knew pure ego when I saw it.
And when I was looking at him, that's what I saw.
I And I knew what he was looking for.
And I could have told him that he wasn't going to find it.
Not with me.
Naught loves another as itself.
I had read that in a poem in English class in high school once.
And that was why Dad, a stud among studs with a world of studs to pick from, had chosen me.
I looked like him, and for the best of all possible reasons.
A son is an extension of his father.
Dad was not old, either in years or in appearance.
But he was not getting any younger.
He had tried to find love with my mother.
Tried and failed.
As she had tried with him and failed.
You can't get blood from a stone.
And even the stone knew it.
So he had gone to men.
A logical step.
By his standards of logic, anyway.
He had gone looking for love and he had found sex.
Naturally.
Because they were not himself, they were other.
One could use them.
One could have sex with them, enjoy oneself with them, in the strictly physical sense.
But the deeper meaning had eluded him.
Therefore, it did not exist.
That was what might be termed his official line.
The deeper meaning was bullshit.
There was only the flesh and the flesh and the flesh.
Anything else was delusion, was myth, was lie.
And in Dad's case this happened to be true.
But there was irony at work here.
Because a part of him did not want to believe it.
A part of him was looking for something more.
But he would fail.
All of him, the whole person, would fail.
Because he was, by his own choosing, a moral and spiritual bankrupt.
And his search, his search in this direction, the only place he knew to look for a way to change this, would prove futile.
He would not love me.
True, naught loves another as itself, but he did not love himself.
Because, if he did, then he would be able to see himself in others.
And the others would not have to come from him, would not have to look and act like him, would not have to have his outlook, his taste, or his lack thereof.
So I was taking no risk with him.
He would not tie me up.
It would even be fun, the physical part of it.
I mean, let's face it; the man was built.
And the tragedy of what was facing him was a long ways off.
And I would be long gone before I had to witness it.
And yet, I could feel no sympathy for him.
I guess that was part of him, rubbing off on me.
But as far as the short range, yes.
Yes, I would sleep with him.
Yes, we would have sex.
In daylight and in darkest night.
In the early morning before anything else was up and moving.
In the mid-afternoon, when the rest of the world was hard at work.
And I would give and give and give.
To the master manipulator.
And watch him, ever so slowly, with great reluctance, come to realize that it was good and it was no good.
And that he had been right all along.
There was the flesh and the flesh and the flesh and nothing, nothing, nothing else.
Not for him.
Not with me.
Not with anyone.
Not now, not ever.
But yes, we would have fun.
He would have fun, trying.
And who knows?
Perhaps his logic would sustain him.
And in that sense, his theory proven to himself, he would have fun failing.
He would be wrong of course.
Or would he ?
Because there could be such a thing as personal truth as well as universal truth.
So that what was, what had to be wrong in the absolute sense would be right for him individually.
Giving him satisfaction, if not happiness.
Nobody ever said that satisfaction had to be happy.
"I'll, uh, I'll get on over to the gym," he said.
The concession had been requested and granted.
He did not want to stick around for any shifts in position, by either or both of us.
He had won.
Again.
As always.
But even that afforded him no satisfaction.
This was his world.
Where such things were taken for granted, and for good reason.
And I wondered if anyone had ever said no to him, had ever refused him anything.
Because I was the one with the best, the most frequent opportunities to do this.
And yet, I had not.
And was not about to.
He left for the gym.
I turned on the TV.
And stared, unseeing, at the boob tube.
Trying not to think.
Not about tonight, not about anything.
Which, if successful, is the easiest way I know to fall asleep.
When I woke up, it was supper time and Dad still had not returned.
I got some cold roast beef out of the fridge and made myself a couple of sandwiches.
I went upstairs and took a shower, coming back down in my robe.
And he returned.
"You eat yet?" he asked.
"Yes. You?"
"Yeah. Stopped at the burger place.
"Last time I ever work out this time of day.
"Hadda beat 'em off with a stick," he laughed.
"Am I supposed to be flattered?" I asked.
He looked at me.
"No, not at all.
He sat down next to me.
"But I do want you to understand how important this is to me."
"Don't worry. I do."
"I'm gonna go upstairs, take a shower, and go to bed.
"You close up down here when you're ready."
"Right."
I slipped into the bed next to him, naked.
And confirmed that he was.
And awake.
Because his hands reached around me at once, finding my buttocks.
And using a finger to find my nether star.
And rubbing it, round and round.
And now penetrating it.
And suddenly throwing off the covers.
And pulling my hips, until I was on knees and elbows.
And getting behind me.
And rimming me, sucking my ass hole, probing it with his tongue.
And quickly getting on his knees behind me.
And shafting into me.
And fucking me in the ass, there in the dark.
And doing it long and slow.
With variations, now pumping in and out, now going round and round, reaming me with his turgid invader.
In the dark.
Where I could have been anybody.
But he was having a good time.
And, for that matter, so was I.
He was good at it, I had to give him that much, displaying the energy and skill, the technique that I preferred for myself, as opposed to, say, Clint's straightforward, all out efforts.
And, when he came, it was a full load.
He cared enough to save up so that he could give his very best.
In the bathroom, we showered together, but did not speak.
Back in bed, we were again in the dark.
Where I did to him as he had done to me, rimming and then fucking him in the ass.
And he could have been anyone.
And in fact, it was Clint's image in my mind as •I drove him all the way home.
We showered together once more.
And he was lost in thought, reviewing what was happening in his mind.
It was happening full force.
So that, physically speaking, he was, had to be, satisfied.
But the other was not happening.
I could have told him that.
But that would not have done it for him.
He had to convince himself.
And we slept, wrapped in each others' arms.
And I wondered what Clint was doing with him-self tonight, just before I dropped off.
Sunday morning.
Light filtering through the curtains, discovering the two of us, naked and entangled.
With large, hard morning erections.
And he awakens.
And sees the twin hard-ons.
And reverses himself.
And we are sucking each other, as we had that first time.
And now, it was my balls he was looking at.
And my thighs which his fingers and hands caressed and explored.
And my abdominals against which his chest was pressed.
And it was good.
It was hot.
But hotter than if he had been in bed with somebody else?
I doubted it.
And so, I knew, must he.
I looked like him.
And I was adequate, even by his high standards, our high standards.
We washed off in the sink together.
And now, as though to review what he had done last night, to see it, to watch it happen, he made love to my ass.
Making love.
Not as romantic as it sounds.
Meaning merely that he took his time, that he lingered on each aspect of ass fucking.
The view of the buttocks at close range.
Spreading the cheeks to check out the anus.
Wallowing in the crack, mouth open.
Raising my hips, mouth still sealed to the target.
Fucking me in the ass with his tongue.
For an extra long time, pulling back to check his progress.
And fucking me, long and slow, his hands exploring my thighs, arms, and body.
And feeling my stiff cock, fucking the air beneath me.
And stroking my balls.
And coming inside me.
And pulling out of me.
And checking the view of my freshly fucked ass hole, his come oozing out of me.
And showering with me.
And knowing that it was good, that nothing really could be done or not done to make it better.
But not finding it.
It.
Meaning that special, unique relationship between himself and the closest thing to himself this world had to offer.
It wasn't working.
He had to see it, had to know.
And now, he was shaving in his bathroom and I returned to mine to do my morning stuff.
And I wondered what Clint was doing right now.
But I tried not to think about it.
Or about the fact that I would rather have been with him at the moment.
There is something singularly upsetting, depressing about being forced to go through an exercise in futility.
It was a beautiful day outside.
It was the kind of a day that, fifteen years earlier, we would have been walking through the zoo, the three of us.
And I would be eating an ice cream cone and carrying a helium-filled balloon on a long, long string.
While, unseen, invisible, the cloud of my father's emptiness hung over us.
Today, that emptiness was riper, more mature, more palpable.
It was a presence, in the course of being defined, realized.
Meaning made real.
It had made genuine progress, between last night and this morning.
Being and nothingness, and the nothingness of being.
My father was not a stupid man.
So that it would not take him long to catch on to what was or was not happening.
It did not surprise me, therefore, when he said, "If you wanna call Clint after breakfast and you guys wanna do something, that's okay."
I looked at him and drained my orange juice.
He knew.
And he knew that I knew.
It had not worked.
And he would not try again.
Oh, he and I would hit the sheets together, of that I was certain.
Because there was still the flesh and the flesh and the flesh.
But there would be no great expectations.
That had been tried.
And proven to be—physical.
What you see is what you get.
Nothing more, nothing less.
Not for him, anyway.
As though to emphasize this, he said, "Here. Here's Larry's number."
And he pulled a number from under a magnet on the fridge.
I shrugged and took it from him.
But I waited until after we had cleared the table and he went upstairs to get dressed before I called.
I would not perform closing ceremonies for him.
The phone rang twice.
I knew that there was an extension on one of the nightstands flanking the football field cum bed.
"Yeah?"
"Clint."
"Uh huh. Who's—"
"Jack."
"Jack!"
And I could tell by the difference in tone that he was suddenly wide awake.
"How are you, Jack?"
"Couldn't be better."
I was a little drained, but I would recover quickly.
"So. What's up?"
"Uh, I thought your situation over."
"And?"
"For a while, you understand, we could, like, try it, you know?"
"I don't know. Tell me."
"Listen, could we get together and, uh ... kick it around?"
"Yeah, sure.
"I've got company right now, but—fuck it.
"Come on over, why don't you?
"This here's sharin' stuff anyway."
"Be right over, soon's I get dressed."
"We'll be waiting."
I hung up.
And ran upstairs to get dressed.
And almost collided with Dad on the way out of my room.
"Got a mission, eh?" he asked.
"Uh, yeah, yeah, I thought I'd run over and keep Clint company for a while."
"You two got the hots for each other, huh?"
I shrugged.
"No, Dad," I sighed, "we just wanna get together and have a good time.
"That's about all two people can really do, you know."
"I know that only too well."
"And, uh ... Clint's thinkin' about finding a place of his own.
"We're gonna talk it over.
"I'm thinking about, uh, not ... living here any more."
"Whatever.
"To tell the truth, I'm thinkin' about gettin' a smaller place.
"Maybe, with you movin' out, this would be a good time."
"You do as you think best, Dad."
"I always have."
"Right."
Whatever Clint suggested, I would go for.
Whatever he came up with would be okay.
I could not face living with Dad any longer.
Not after last night and this morning.
I had been willing to stick it out, to help him find himself, searching the only way he knew how.
He had planned carefully, manipulated expertly.
He had set out to prove something to himself, using me as the guinea pig.
And I did not resent it.
Perhaps I should have, but I did not.
This had been important to him and therefore to me.
He was my father and, in a strange way, I owed him what he had asked of me.
I had done my duty and that obligation was now ended.
There was no more point in my being there with him.
Because our life together was over.
It ended, as it had begun, on his terms.
One door closes, another opens.
And now, I wondered what awaited me at Larry's.
And it occurred to me that perhaps Clint would want to move fast.
So that Larry would return home to emptiness.
Just as my father's house would be empty.
But for a while, Clint and I would have each other.
At least, our bodies would have each other.
To fill the emptiness.
NOTE
Nick "the Hunk" Johnson is the author of this book. He showed up at our offices in early June with his manuscript in his hand.
He was no more than a boy—and preciously cute. He filled us, the editors, with desire immediately.
"I would like you to publish this book," Nick exclaimed.
"How hard have you worked on this manuscript?" we asked.
"I have worked very, very hard," Nick said with a smile on his face.
"How hard are you willing to work to get it published?" we asked.
"I am afraid I don't know what you are talking about," he said.
We put our hand over our crotch and gave ourself a squeeze.
"You want sex?"
"That's right."
"If I give it to you, will you publish the book?" he asked.
"We'll see."
"What kind of sex would you like?" Nick questioned quickly.
"Blow job," we said.
"All right," he said.
"Kneel," we said.
He did. He reached up and unbuckled the buckle to our trousers.
"I can tell that you are well hung," Nick said, licking his lips.
Nick unzipped our fly and pulled the pants down, along with the underwear.
"Nice cock!"
"Thanks."
He licked the balls and then he sucked gently at the balls.
"That feels real good, boy!"
"More?"
"Yeah!"
He sucked the balls some more.
"Get the cock!"
"Right," he said.
He licked the cock-and then he sucked the cock. He didn't stop sucking until their was jism filling his mouth.