Daddies, page 6
What’s he murmuring? Through my hazy post-come drowse, I hear him trying to speak. Poor boy, I’m probably crushing him with my weight. I tug the bandana down over his chin, pull the piss-briefs out.
“Stay inside me, Sir.” Brendan wraps his legs around my waist and crosses his ankles in the small of my back, holding me in place. I chuckle and nod. Grinning, he tightens his hole around my cock, squeezing and pumping, managing to keep me hard for a good while longer. Finally softened, I pull out. I untie his hands and feet. We wrap our arms around one another and doze till the breakfast bell. Outside, somewhere nearby, a mourning dove is sadly cooing.
As much as Brendan loves biscuits, he doesn’t make it to the second helping. After that drunken poolside comment, the Gaggle has carefully sat at another breakfast table, but they’re still eying us and smiling. Just last night Brendan was urging me to ignore them, but now he’s stopped eating mid-biscuit, thrown down his fork and napkin, and strode over to them.
“What the fuck’s wrong with you?” Brendan snarls, arms crossed over his chest.
“Well, mercy…” From the sound of the voice, this is the bastard who shouted at us. “What’s your problem? We were just eating breakfast.”
Before I can rise and get over there—my butch-bear bulk has intimidated many a catty asshole—Brendan’s shouting, “Why do you have to be so mean to people? You don’t even know us! Why can’t you be kind?” Then he turns on his heel and heads out the door.
Breaking the shocked silence is my job. “You’re lucky I have more important things to do right now, otherwise I’d kick your ass,” I say, as calmly as I can, before heading out to find my boy.
He’s not in Redbud. He’s not by the pool. He’s not in the timbered lounge or the hot tub grotto. He’s in the gym, stripped to the waist, flexing through one preacher curl after another. I sit on a padded bench and watch him. He avoids my eyes. Finished with curls, he moves to the bench press. Without being asked, I spot him. He hefts up and lowers the barbell again and again, blank face contorting into grimaces of effort. Even now, upset as we both are, I notice how beautiful his chest is, pectorals flexing into little hairy hills, then relaxing. Three years of submitting to me have made his nipples much more prominent than they were when we met, and right now I want to fall to my knees and take them into my mouth.
Brendan pants through one last press, then lets the barbell clatter into its stand. He rises, eyes glowing, temples shiny with sweat. The scent of him maddens me, makes me ache to truss him, hurt him, rape him. As if telepathic, he looks up at me, the hardness in his eyes evaporates, and he says softly, “Daddy, did you pack the paddle like I asked?”
At his request, he’s not bound. Naked, he lies rigidly across my knees, hands grasping my calves. I’ve gagged him with another bandana-and-tape combo to keep the noise down. We’ve closed the bedroom windows, too.
I start with my hand. He jumps and whimpers, gripping my legs harder. I rest my left arm across his shoulders to hold him down. Beneath the brown pelt of his butt-fur, beneath my stinging palm, his white cheeks quiver, flush crimson, glow with warmth. When my hand tires, I pick up the leather paddle. I bring it down again and again—steady speed, steady force. The heat builds up, and with it the pain. I work on one cheek and then the other, then strike both together, then work on the back of the thighs before returning to the buttocks.
Brendan snorts, moans, growls. Brendan digs his fingernails into the flesh of my calves. Brendan kicks his feet, goes limp. Brendan stiffens up, tosses his head, shakes and bucks till the bed frame complains. Finally, under the paddle’s unremitting blows, Brendan sniffles and begins to cry. When I hesitate, he wildly nods his head, arches his butt, and into his gag begs for more.
Finally. Finally. Miles of subterranean flow, and now his sorrow reaches the surface, its black waters flow out into light.
I keep going. I keep going till Brendan’s sobbing brokenly, till my forearm’s numb and his ass is covered with bruises and welts. I throw the paddle to the floor, ease the tape off his lips, pull the bandanas out, drag him onto the bed, hug him to me, and let him sob some more. He tucks his head under my chin and presses his wet face into my chest. Trembling, he draws me even closer and keeps crying for a long time.
When he stops, I reach over to the bedside table, fetch a Kleenex, and let him blow his nose. He rolls onto his side, back to me, snuggling his bruised butt into my lap. I wrap my arms around him and pull him against me.
“They wouldn’t let me sing,” he says.
“I know, buddy.” I rub my beard over the nape of his neck.
“I was on the wedding program twice. I was going to sing. I was going to sing ‘He Touched Me.’ I was going to sing ‘Amazing Grace.’ Beth wanted me to sing. It was her wedding, not his.”
I once was blind but now I see. “I’m so sorry, buddy.”
“He was so hateful. My own father. He’s always been mean to me. And now that he knows… He called me a queer in front of the preacher. He made me leave. Why the hell did Beth tell him about us? She should have known he’d… He’s never been kind. Why can’t he be kind like you?
Abruptly, Brendan rolls over and seizes my hands in his. “I would have done a good job.”
“I know, Cubbie. You always do. Your voice is as fine as your face and body.”
Brendan smiles shyly. He savors compliments; he’s mortified by compliments.
“On your belly,” I say.
Brendan’s used to obeying. He loves taking orders.
The lotion’s very cool. He jerks and giggles as I squirt it on his burning butt. He sighs as I rub it in. He stretches his arms above his head and buries his face in the sheets.
“Daddy?” he mutters into the mattress.
“Yes, boy?” The lotion-sticky hair on his ass is making little runnels and ridges I stroke into patterns with my fingertips.
“I want to eat in the fancy guesthouse restaurant tonight. I don’t care if we see those queens. I want a big steak. I hear they have great steaks.”
“Whatever you want,” I say, caressing the musky thicket between his buttocks, kissing a bruise.
Brendan reaches back with both hands, spreading his asscheeks. “And Daddy? Would you put the butt-plug in me? I want it up in me all day.”
A good bit of lube, a little patience, some soft groans—his fur-hazy hole opens in stages, like the flowers of the clematis—and Brendan’s full. He’s a chalice made to be filled, made to be sipped from with reverence. I work the plug around a bit; he shudders, slumps, and sighs.
“God, that feels good,” Brendan says, folding his arms under his head. “I want it up in me during dinner, okay? No one will know. We’ll be getting away with something.”
I love that bad-boy streak in him. Been a while since I’ve seen it. “You bet,” I chuckle, massaging more lotion into his bruise-clouded cheeks.
He’s half-asleep, exhausted from both the spanking and the memories of that bitter day. I pat his shoulder, saying, “You stay here and nap, buddy. I’m gonna read some, or, since it’s warmer today, maybe I’ll play some guitar on the porch. We can have leftover shrimp scampi when you’re ready for lunch.”
I rise from the bed. Brendan mumbles, “Sir?”
“Yeah, Cubbie?”
“Thanks for all of it. It helped. It helps when you hurt me. It’s like hurt burns out hurt. I love you a lot.”
Before I can respond, he’s rolled into his customary fetal position and is fast asleep. I cover him with a blanket and shut the door.
Outside, the sun comes and goes. When a phoebe flits under the eaves to her nest, I move to the porch’s other end so as not to disturb her. I pick up Virgil, put the book down, and fetch my guitar. I’m going to change these strings—they’re over a year old, sounding dull, but I have a new set in my case.
Later, after lunch, Cubbie and I will hit the hot tub. Tonight, after dinner, if it’s warm enough, we’ll sit out here in starlight and candlelight. Then I’ll blow out the candles; Brendan will peel off his shirt and fall to his knees. I’ll pull out my cock, facefuck my cub slowly and softly, fondle his plump nipples, flood his mouth with come. Brendan will rise and kiss me; I’ll taste myself on his lips and in his sticky goatee. He’ll drop his shorts around his ankles then; he’ll hump my fist for a while and finish on my tongue, filling me with the rush of his release.
Maybe then we’ll go inside to have another fire and finish off the cake. Maybe then I’ll fine-tune the new strings, start into one of his favorite old hymns or melancholy mountain songs, and maybe then, for just a little while before we head up to bed, Brendan will sing for me.
DADDY-O
Simon Sheppard
Emptiness all is emptiness man
Yes America hear my hollow
Anguished
Cry
And then you paused, Arvin, and we students, not sure what to do, clapped raggedly for you.
A minor legend, yes, you were. Not as big as Ginsberg or Burroughs, no, though it was well known you’d slept with them both in Tangier. And to me, then a college sophomore, you seemed, you were, so old. An old beatnik.
Which didn’t stop me from wondering. My friend Mitch Steiner had already told me that he’d gotten blown by Allen Ginsberg. I was kind of appalled—the beat poet was then in his mid-forties, while Mitch had just turned nineteen—but fascinated and a bit envious, also. (I’d grown up near New York, precociously rebellious enough to have read The Evergreen Review in high school, and Ginsberg was, to us self-appointed bohemians, a star.) I was more than a little threatened, too; I was still in the closet then, to the point of being unable, one hot summer night when Mitch, shirtless and stoned, told me he was bisexual, to respond in the way he’d no doubt hoped I would. Yes, Arvin, I should have sucked his dick. And I couldn’t help thinking of Allen Ginsberg doing just that.
When you came to Antioch College to give a reading and teach a seminar, I made it a point to attend your performance. And yes, I admit it, to wear tight shorts and sit in the first row. You told me later, Arvin, that you’d noticed me right off, and yes, I believe you did.
I took your seminar, too, but I felt a bit overawed—whether by your self-declared genius or your minor fame I’m still not sure—so my couple of conversations with you were short, halting, and strained.
And that was that, you were gone in a few days. It wasn’t until I had a co-op job in New York that I saw you again. By that time Stonewall had happened, and I’d come out, though more assertively when I was off on co-op than when I was back on campus.
There was a demonstration one night in Greenwich Village, protesting some instance of police brutality or another. I made my way from my roach-infested place on Avenue B, through the junkie-spattered streets. When I finally got there, maybe a dozen guys were picketing the police station, and one of them was you.
I caught your eye, and there was a glimmer of recognition, but I figured you didn’t remember who I was, me no doubt being just one of an ongoing gaggle of potential acolytes. So I gathered my courage and walked up to you. When there was a pause in the screaming and chanting, I said, “Hey, ’scuse me. We met at Antioch, remember?”
“Yes.” You smiled. “The curly-headed angel with perfect, hairy legs sitting in the front row.”
My blush was probably visible all the way to midtown. “I didn’t know you were a political activist,” I said, lamely.
“Just being gay is a political act, right?”
“Yeah.”
“So what’s your name? Did I ever know it?”
“Bryce,” I told him.
“Bryce, would you like to come home with me?”
For a poet, that was startlingly direct. I guess I hesitated.
“I’m old, right?” That was said not defiantly, but in a matter-of-fact tone.
“It’s not that,” I replied, although it was, partly.
“Then?”
“I don’t know.”
“Come, then. I live just a few blocks away.”
“Um, I’m not very experienced.”
“You don’t have to be. Come on.”
Your apartment was untidy, homey, crammed with books. On one wall, there was a little drawing by Rauschenberg, next to a badly framed black-and-white photo of a young Burroughs, a young Ginsberg, and a young you.
“Tangier,” you said, though I already suspected that.
“So you’re into Zen?” I asked, inanely.
“I sit, if that’s what you mean.” You stubbed out your cigarette. “Speaking of which, sit.”
I perched on a comfy old sofa. You turned on a reel-to-reel tape recorder. I don’t know what I expected. Miles Davis? Dylan? The Velvet Underground? I certainly didn’t expect it would be Italian opera—Verdi’s Otello, I later learned.
“Want to smoke some reefer?” you asked. I’d never heard anyone actually call it reefer before, not out loud.
“Sure.” By that time, I was dropping acid almost every weekend.
You lifted half a joint out of a little wooden box, lit it, took a drag, and handed it over to me.
It was pretty good dope, and as I started getting off, I realized that having sex with you was not only possible, but probable. And—somewhat to my surprise—my cock started getting hard.
“Say, is that a Dream Machine?” I said, gesturing at a cylinder-shaped gizmo in the corner of the cluttered room.
“You are good,” you smiled, stroking your salt-and-pepper goatee. “Brion Gysin himself gave it to me. Care to try it?”
“Yeah, I would.” I was just a little reluctant, but it was a once-in-a-lifetime chance to experience something I’d only read about.
“Sit down in front of it.”
I went and sat on a cushion on the floor, a foot away from the machine. I stared at it: a metal cylinder pierced by an oriental-looking pattern of holes, and within the tube, a simple light bulb on a stalk standing in the middle. “This actually works?”
“I have to turn it on, of course. But yes, it does. Close your eyes.”
I closed my eyes, and you switched on the Dream Machine, the light shining, the pierced cylinder rotating. Flickers of light hit my eyelids. At first it was simple strobing, nothing more. Then patterns, geometric swirls like an acid trip. After that, mythical beasts, accompanied by an unearthly sense of calm. I sat there for I have no idea how long before I said, “Wow.”
“Enough?”
“I guess. But wow.”
“Just turn away and open your eyes slowly.”
I did. You were sitting there on the comfortable sofa, illuminated by the flickering light, naked from the waist down, your hard dick in your hand. I was still feeling very high. The soprano sounded like she was in distress.
“Want to suck me?” you asked. “Want to suck your Daddy?”
The “Daddy” part took me aback. I’d always had a not-very-good relationship with my own father, who’d left my mom when I was fourteen and later remarried.
Still…
The soprano—Desdemona—was singing an almost unbearably beautiful aria as I got down on my knees between your hairy, outspread legs. Your cock was on the small side, cut of course, and hard as the proverbial rock. Your pubes were, like your goatee and what remained of your hair, salt and pepper, with a funky, spicy smell. And I realized I wanted to suck your cock, in a way I hadn’t ever wanted to suck cock before.
I licked the head, already slick with precum. Mitch Steiner might have sucked Ginsberg, but there I was blowing the handsomer—if less mythic—Arvin Gold. I took your whole hard penis in my mouth.
As I blew you that first time, you laid your hand gently on the back of my head. And, as the opera reached it final, tragic moments, I found myself wanting to cry. Something about my father? I didn’t know; I still don’t. I do know that your touch was magic, that my mouth and I became instantly devoted to giving you as much pleasure as we could.
“Touch my ass,” you said.
I reached below your loosely hanging balls, spreading your flesh until I made contact with your soft, moist hole.
“Play with Daddy’s hole,” you said.
Again with the “Daddy,” but this time it didn’t bother me. I slid the tip of my finger into your heat.
“Oh, yeah.” I suppose I might have liked to hear something a bit more poetic, but there it was. “Oh yeah, feels great.”
I sucked harder, feeling your cock throb in response. I vibrated my fingertip, sliding it deeper into you. My own cock was leaking in my jeans.
“Here it comes,” you said, as though announcing the Resurrection. And you shot off in my mouth, a full, slightly bitter load of cum. Daddy’s cum.
It was a mark of how stoned—or something—I was, that part of me wanted to say I love you, Daddy. Or Father. But I didn’t. I just got up off my knees.
The music had ended. The light from the Dream Machine careened crazily around the room. You didn’t even ask me if I wanted to cum.
That wasn’t the last time I sucked you off. Each time, I went over to your place, got down on my knees, and serviced you. My beatnik Dad. Serviced your cock, your daddy meat, your Shiva lingam. Your cock.
