Hot Daddies, page 13
When I finally fuck Harley Keith it is in my office. We are six weeks into the semester and the boy is harnessing his creativity, giving me powerful stories that hit me in heart, gut and crotch. I try not to jerk off while reading them because they deserve better, but I still do jerk off. And then one day during office hours Harley bursts in without an appointment, apologizing as he slams the door behind him. “I don’t get it,” he says, flinging pages at me. “You tell me to write what I feel, but you still tear it apart. What the fuck do you want?”
He is red faced, breathing hard and so pent up I know he needs to fuck. Maybe that’s the problem. Maybe he can’t handle criticism when he hasn’t gotten off. His uttering the word fuck, in any context, confirms the need.
“Harley,” I soothe, “Harley.” I get up, come around the desk, and he lets me take him by the shoulders. “I am sorry if I upset you. That is not my intent. Never do I wish to cause you pain of any kind, but I must be honest about your work and this latest is a return to your early chaos. You’d been making such progress, producing fine work, then you give me this borderline nonsense. Even your style is lost amid the ravings.”
He slumps beneath my touch, but I hold on. “Tell me, is something going on in your life that has upset you?” I ask. “The work seems to say that.”
He shakes his head in the negative but starts to speak. “This guy: we broke up, I wasn’t expecting it and we had this scene and everybody saw it which made it worse and there were names called and oh, god, I’m a wreck. I mean, I really cared for him and he just shit on me.”
“I am so sorry,” I say, folding him into my arms. The gesture is without intent, merely the comforting of a boy in pain, but my dick isn’t buying that.
Harley doesn’t resist my consolation and I pass a grateful second that I have some appeal. I slide my arms down his back, pulling him close and his arms wrap around my neck. A shudder runs through him and I think there may be tears. I am moved to offer homilies. “It will be all right, it will be all right.”
Seconds pass in this comforting state, and as I feel him resurrect his upright posture, he starts pressing his crotch to mine. I am tentative in my response, allowing just slight pressure, but he is suddenly rampant, humping me until I tell him he must lock the door. When he pulls away I see him wild eyed, flushed. He’s panting and he rushes to seal us in, then drops his pants and stands before me. His cock is ample, cut, and bright pink and for a second I recall my dreams of kneeling before him.
“You must let me fuck you,” I say as I kneel, “but first I must feed.”
He comes almost the second I get my mouth onto him. I need do little more than receive his offering, sucking and swallowing as he thrusts and spurts. He grunts and moans softly and I take these in as eagerly as I do his spunk and then he is done, the morsel softens, but I still suck for it has been some time since I’ve been so engaged. Finally I withdraw because my own cock begs attention.
“Take off your pants,” I tell him as I clear a spot on the desk, find a condom. He responds while I push down my own pants and underwear, freeing myself. “Get onto the desk,” I tell him, “on your back.”
He gets into position and before I can instruct him further, pulls his legs high and wide. And there it is, the dark center I crave. I apply the rubber, wet myself with spit, and look at his face before I go in. His mouth is open, tongue out just enough to offer welcome.
I ease into him and for a second I simply idle, home at last. His passage is tight, befitting his age, and he wriggles a bit as if to get me going. I smile, start to thrust and he grabs his cock, holds on.
It is a gloriously good fuck, one of the best of my life and at fifty-two there have been quite a number. But there is nothing like giving it to a beautiful boy, a genius boy, a boy full of promise who has much to offer the world, a boy who sets all aside to raise his legs for me.
I take my time. The best part of age is loss of the damnable urgency that cuts you short all too often. I know how to drive my dick, how to ease up to make things last, how to savor the feel of the push and pull. I am inside this boy. I have him. I allow my dick to pop out and I drive it up between his legs so I can see it hard, fucking hard, then I ram it back in because minutes are ticking by and I can’t do this all day, much as I’d like to. And the stir is beckoning and what man can resist that particular rise. So I pick up speed until I’m shooting into him, unleashing what feels like every ounce of fluid I possess in every organ I possess. And Harley is working his cock and starts to spurt and my ecstasy is doubled with us both letting to at once, awash in come young and old.
Finally I must relent because I am empty. I slide out, toss the condom, and pull Harley to his feet. He allows me to kiss him. His lips are soft and willing and were we not in my office, I would get him going again but we must stop. I retreat, tell him it was wonderful, and we dress. As he picks up his backpack and prepares to leave, I make an offering.
“I am available to you night and day,” I say. “For any reason.”
He studies me, still sheepish, as if we’ve done no more than discuss his work. He nods and then he is gone.
When a student comes in twenty minutes later for a scheduled appointment, it is a trial to pay attention but I manage. And when she is gone, I hurry to wrap up and get out of the building because I want to get home, fix a drink and replay Harley’s every detail. So I’m full steam down the hall when a rushing student crashes into me. And it is none other than Cody Morse.
I teach my students that circumstance must never be used in their work even when it does, in fact, pervade real life. We encounter improbability all the time. A man travels to India and finds his dentist at the same hotel. A woman moves to another state and her next-door neighbor is the cousin of her sister-inlaw. It’s there all the time but must never appear in fiction, lest the reader see it as an easy out and feel cheated. Cody Morse on this day is pure circumstance, but it doesn’t lessen the impact. The incident is brief, we pass a look, and I hurry away. He does the same but I’d venture with less fallout.
In my car I begin to swear. My hands are shaking so badly I drop my keys and I leave them on the floor as I sit uttering all manner of epithets, none of which relieve the pain of his intrusion. “Fuck, shit, goddamn fucking shit,” and on and on until I run out and sit like some dazed victim.
Carl and I were together twenty-six years. Carl Perry, master plumber and twenty years my senior; Carl, the man who took up the raw student and taught him about sex and life. Plumbers can be more than the grunting man snaking out the toilet. They can be surprisingly well read, witty, sexy and above all caring. That was Carl. He supported me as I pursued my degrees, encouraged me with the teaching job, and stuck by when I had to overcome sexual discrimination to gain tenure. He was my life and when his heart failed and he departed at sixty-eight, I was bereft. My lover, my mentor, had gone. The emptiness was of such enormity that I nearly lost my job and at times considered packing in my life. There would never be another Carl because, without him, I slipped into his older-man realm, which I’d never considered myself part of until I found myself alone.
How is a man to make such a transition? I had adored his embrace. A bear of a man, he babied me terribly. He petted and consoled, he loved and fucked. He taught me life’s perspective, which is possibly the best lesson of all. And then he left me to take up his role. It seemed impossible.
He died in July, so I had six weeks until the fall semester. On the first day of classes I was annoyed by the crush of students and was shaky in front of my class. I began Fiction Writing by parroting myself because I could not summon the energy to create anything new, and it worked fine and I got things going; I began to surface. And then Cody Morse arrived, a latecomer who eyed me with such certainty that I knew he had been sent to ease my burden.
He had a farm boy quality, rough and unkempt. He always wore rumpled khakis, never jeans, and a battered brown leather jacket over dingy T-shirts.
He approached me after class his first day, said he wanted to be a writer, wanted to know who to read. I told him all would be covered in class but he fidgeted with such impatience that I crossed a line I’d never before considered. “I could tutor you privately if you like,” I offered.
He grinned. “That would be great. When can we start?”
I knew what was going to happen and so did he because he adjusted his cock as he spoke. We set a time for him to come by the house one evening. “Give it a try,” I said.
“Cool.”
I fucked him the first night and every tutoring session thereafter. Oh, we did the tutoring but always in languid discussion after sex, me petting and playing while he went on about his ambitions. He had genuine creative talent and I did encourage him to the fullest, but there was always desire involved. I needed him and within this saw how Carl had needed me, and I took a measure of satisfaction in assuming that role, as if Carl were inside me now, cheering me on or at least nodding with approval. I was guiding a boy into his destiny while the boy freed me from grief.
It lasted three and one half months. Cody ultimately spent more than tutoring sessions at my house and we started having daylong sexual wallows that were a true awakening. As my house is well fenced, we ran naked outside until the weather drove us indoors where we coupled before a roaring fire.
During this time Cody blossomed as a writer, displaying remarkable originality along with strong command of language. His father was a railroad man who liked to read, so Cody had grown up at the library and been encouraged in words and thinking, but his father had also rejected the gay boy, so there was anger grown alongside the talent. Cody was one of the few young men I encountered who was able to channel one into the other by way of writing. That he didn’t write about fathers and sons mattered little. His anger was on the page, not specific but fuel nevertheless. It spilled out like flaming gasoline and I couldn’t get enough.
And then one day when I expected him at the house, he didn’t arrive and I phoned but got only his machine.
At first I left playful inquires as to his whereabouts, saying I was ready and waiting, but these soon deteriorated into demands. We had plans, he was expected. For two days he was a no-show and then there he was in class and I was tipped over and unable to right myself, struggling through the hour. For the first time Cody asked no questions, offered no comments. He sat slouched in his chair, taking no notes, looking like he’d been roughed up more than usual.
He knew what he was doing to me. He knew I loved him and he sat there and allowed me to stew in those awful juices. “Mr. Morse, may I see you?” I called out as any professor might at the end of class. He dropped back down into his chair and let the room empty.
Neither of us spoke at first. I hoped he might initiate some apology but when none came I went to him and asked in as light a voice as I could manage, “What’s going on?”
“What do you mean?” he said, like he hadn’t a clue that anything had shifted or more, that he’d done the shifting.
“I expected you Sunday. We had plans.”
“Oh, yeah, right. Something came up.”
“And tutoring on Monday?”
“Something else came up.” He didn’t grin but he might as well have, and I felt a hot stab to my middle because I knew what he meant. He’d had another man’s dick, one preferable to mine.
“Are you telling me…” I couldn’t finish the question because I feared the answer.
He stood up. “I don’t think I need any more tutoring. Got the hang of it now.”
I shut my eyes because I was dying inside and so was the Carl that had come alive in me. It was all imploding and I had to sit there and take it, allow shrapnel to tear my guts to pieces, all because this little shit had found somebody better. And probably younger. “I suppose you do,” I managed, and he shrugged and was gone.
Roger Bruxton found me sitting, slumped, when he came in to start his French Literature class. “Merrill? Are you all right?”
“Yes, of course.” I stood but my knees nearly buckled and Roger, fifteen years my junior, rushed over. “I’m fine,” I insisted somewhat harshly, then apologized and he dismissed my attitude with the good humor of a young man indulging an older one. I gathered my papers and briefcase with some effort and hurried from the room, rushing to my car where I burst into tears.
Now I suffer the worst kind of déjà vu, abandonment rising up to consume what has just begun to sprout. People are passing by the car and when one looks in I start the engine and drive away, wiping tears so I can see the road. I don’t go home, though. I drive to the beach where I don’t get out but sit looking at the water, hating what Cody Morse has done to me even though this day he himself has done nothing. But circumstance has made him plow under the best day in years, burying promise under the muddy past.
I try to calm myself by watching seagulls swoop and dive against a hazy sky. Below, wave after wave breaks on the shore and I attempt comfort in the predictability of the roll and spew. Life is more than my little upset, I remind myself. This is Carl’s wisdom, how minuscule our individual lives, no matter the drama or hurt or even joy. Life itself is huge, and we must pull in more to gain balance. So I attempt this, thinking of the ocean’s other end lapping against Japan and the islands where other people live with other lives and other hurts. Is there some Japanese professor likewise disappointed in love? Has he been pulled asunder just as he emerged?
Tomorrow is another day, I tell myself. Yes, Miss Scarlett, it is indeed, and because I do give a damn, I shall put aside the unfortunate intrusion the memory of Cody Morse triggered by our hallway encounter, and take up where I so blissfully left off. Harley Keith shall crawl into bed with me and allow his warm buttocks to press against my prick, and I shall sleep well. But positive thought cannot overpower inner turmoil and I awaken after a restless night, absent any morning erection, gut complaining at my lack of food.
I wolf down a bowl of cereal to calm the innards and skip coffee, which would rile them again. I shower and dress, thinking of Harley in class at ten. Dare I approach him about another tryst? Will he come to me on his own? Will he be enticed by the promise of my doing things to him or will he be repelled by an old man’s advances? By the time I reach the university, it’s all fused into a maelstrom and it’s all Cody’s fault.
In class I had planned to discuss three stories as examples of what we’ve been after. Harley’s is one of these and while I’d planned to discuss his last, I move it to first because I need the connection. The topic is style and without naming the writer I introduce the story.
“Longing,” I begin. “From the first sentence we gain a sense of longing. We are never told Michael is longing but we see by his actions that he is bereft, almost grieving in his need of love.” And here I begin to read. I’ve already read the story countless times just to be with Harley because he is within the words. I glance at him now and see him riveted, as if he’s never heard his work aloud. Maybe he hasn’t. We should do that. I could tutor him.
Discussion about the story is lively. Harley offers nothing while I sneak a couple of smiles his way and prod the discussion until I’ve gotten as much as I can from the class. Reluctantly I move to the next. It gets half the effort and the third still less. When class ends and they all start to leave, I fix on Harley who remains seated. My heart leaps. I am in ecstasy, reborn, saved. Hallelujah!
“How are you doing?” I ask as I go to him.
He shrugs. “I dunno.”
“Not man trouble again.”
“Still.”
“Ah, I see.” But of course I don’t. I thought he was done with the shitheel. “You’re back together, then?”
“Not quite.” He shakes his head. “It’s kind of a mess. You know how things can get.”
Here I purposely pause, hoping he’ll pick up on what he’s doing to me, but youth is never as perceptive as age would have it. Youth is energetically oblivious, even when he’s trying, and I do think Harley tries. He just can’t pick up on an old man’s needs.
“Would you like to talk about it? Maybe we could go somewhere.”
He hasn’t expected this and I see hesitation, like he’s embarrassed for me. And I regret the overture, almost regret the fuck. “Of course you may have plans,” I quickly add.
He thinks about it, which in itself is wounding. How can it be that he has to think? He knows what I can give him. I’ll make him come buckets. We can fuck for hours—but suddenly it’s Cody I’m fucking and I shake my head. “Never mind,” I say as I get up so quickly the chair topples.
Harley stands. “You okay?”
“Yes, fine.”
At the door he asks where we can go. He says it like it’s the most casual thing on earth, which I suppose it is to him while to me it is the end all be all.
“Would you like to come to my place? Have a drink?”
“Okay.”
On the drive I wonder if he even remembers us fucking. He seems much the neophyte, like he’s gotten into a car with an older man for the first time in his life and he has no idea I’ve even got a dick or will offer it to him. I try not to speed, then try not to go too slow lest he see an elder at the wheel. At the house he tosses his backpack onto a chair and starts looking at the books that line one wall of the living room. The house is a 1924 bungalow, small, cozy, comfortable. I open wine, pour two glasses, invite him to sit, but he takes the wine and remains at the books.
“What are you looking for?” I ask.
“Something I’ve read,” he says with a laugh.
“Give it time. You’ll read them all.”
I’m beside him, ecstatic with his proximity. I sip wine when I really want to get his pants down. I could fuck him standing at the books. We could recite titles as he takes my cock. “Who’s your favorite author?” I ask, trying to derail myself.
