Date: Tue, 14 Feb 2006 11:40:08 -0500
From: A. Cheshire Cat <kierkegaard_is_cool@hotmail.com>
Subject: Guys' Stuff 2: The Valentine's Day Special (non-sex, father-son)

One Christmas when Chad was just a kid, his dad gave him a big fat dildo.

His dad was curious to see what the kid would do to it.

They were alone that Christmas. This is what he ended up falling upon: he
covered it in strawberry jam, and tentatively told the boy to lick it.

That's way it started. Louis Armstrong was playing a Christmas Carol on the
radio.

The kid's lips were so red to begin with, just a little kid. He was probably
around four.

Or so. The little boy lapped away at the head of the beastly thing in his
hands, he didn't get it.

He didn't realize what it was, he licked it so innocently because innocence
is all he had, that and an eye for approval: watching his father smile made
him believe he was doing right.

Dad would say things like, "That'a boy."

His dad was almost crying, wrenched from one life utterly to another, a new
destiny giggling, getting high on sugar, gladly . . .

As spring came that year his father found himself alone a lot with the boy
again.

Chad doesn't remember really any of this. Some call these sorts of memories
the foundation of the man that he would become. Some say it disappears
forever. Some hope it does.

The dildo was put away one time when the family came over, up into a closet.
It had become a novelty to Dad, but it was a secret between him and the boy.
He'd jerked his man meat after letting the boy sit on his lap and lick it.
He'd gotten off on the spectacle of seeing the boy be a happy kid in front
of the family, no one suspected their misbehavior. It didn't matter much to
Chad what they did before bath some nights when Dad had time, he was only a
boy still. Full of imagination and laughter and curiosity and energy, he
made his father smile when it was time to show off to others.

After this one particular family visit Chad was getting tired, dozing in
front of the television. Walt Disney was on.

"You're too close to the television, you're going to hurt your eyes."

The boy lay still and smiled. He rolled over on the carpet. It was dark in
the house now that Dad turned off most of the other lights in this room. It
was warm in the house, there was a sense of rolling around on a moonlit
cloud, in the blue glow of the cartoon playing. Like a night to themselves,
like two kids camping out in the living room or like two grown ups sharing a
moment on a Sunday night, but instead father and son in this particular
moment.

The boy doesn't talk much sense sometimes, he's still learning, but then the
boy says, "No, you come lie over here. It's fun to lie so close, the screen
is so big."

His Dad laughed and went up to the boy and put his arms on his hips with a
big wolf's huff. The boy giggled and sprawled himself at the mercy of the
grin on his Dad's face.

"Oh no," his dad yelled, and then dove down in a thundercloud of wooshes and
splooshes and cackles and tickles: the boy squealed and laughed and kicked
his legs around and such. Then his Dad came down, his legs bent and the
tickling slowed. His father said, "Well let's pull back just a bit, it's too
close for me."

His father went back and grabbed a throw blanket from the couch and a
pillow, a large square things, maroon. After a shimmy and shake and a slight
readjustment everyone's comfortable with a couple feet of the televisions
glow. Camping out in the living room.

The blanket was draped over them. They focused on some good old-fashioned
Walt Disney Spring Time cartoons. Remember the sort of stuff they'd show the
kids just as the snow was melting and the birds were singing, and the bees,
they were just, just, just about to start buzzing: Merry Melodies,
instruments kissing and blushing for each other. The chivalrous heroes and
fainting damsels of the old-school cartoon Romances, falling for each other,
slaying dragons for their ladies. Our eyes were wide as the color and ideas
penetrated us. The boy's eyes were gorging on the ideas that would make
life's tragic truths about love a little more unbearable, his father
suddenly stroked his thigh, the boy smiled, it was so warm under the
blanket. It was a moment shared by them.

When the commercial came on the boy pressed back in toward the Dad and Dad
hugged him a little more, like a warm bear hug.

As the show started, without even thinking, Dad adjusted himself so that his
crotch was in line with the boy's bum. They spooned. The boy's head was in
about the Dad's chest. His Dad's heart beating softly, undisturbed behind
the boy's brain as it tingled with the wonders it beheld in the cartoons of
Disney.

It snowed like a lonesome night out. It was a perfect night for this.

His Dad thought about his success since the divorce. His family has
supported him being able to keep the boy. He was able to focus on his career
for a few years since his parents had lived so close, but now they were
moving to Florida as of tonight. They'll visit, but it was kind of nice to
know that Dad's parents were gone, gone, gone. It meant a lot more
loneliness. His parents provided a lot of entertainment for the both him and
his son. Helped the boy socialize and be so polite. He hoped he could live
up to their expectations, hoped he could fill their shoes.

The show was ending soon.

The boy was almost falling asleep but hadn't yet.

"Are you asleep little boy?" His father sang it like the girl singing on
television.

"No." The boy just said it.

"Is it time for bed little boy?" He finished the melody.

The boy made up a version of the song, or perhaps didn't know it, the Dad
knew that song off by heart. He sang, "It's not over yet."

There was a pause.

Then just like the song he finished it off with an off-key, "Daddy."

They were whispering. It's one his favorite memories of his son.
But then the boy asked, his tone a little different, "Daddy?"

Still gushing, red-in-the-face from the sweetness of his son, he answered,
"Yes Chad."

"Why were all those cartoons kissing at the end."

"Because," his father paused, one never know what a child will ask,
sometimes it's easy, sometimes it's easy but you can have fun with it, and
then sometimes you get to give them a good stone in their foundation and you
try to tell them something you want them to know for a long time, perhaps in
a way forever. "Because, they say Spring is the season of love and everyone
they're showing is happily in love. People kiss when they're in love, love
is a beautiful thing."

"What is love?"

"We love each other. The way you feel safe with me, the way that you know I
would do anything for you, that is love." And that's when his cock started
to grow, Dad's did, at the boy's bum. His father distracted the boy by
petting the boy's dark hair, straight, his son's hair was.

Of course the boy said, "Do we kiss like them?" He made it sound really
terrifying to say, he felt like he was talking about something he shouldn't
be talking about.

His father didn't alter his tone at all, it was just as confident and deep
and almost whispered, like a purr, from a man. His lowest voice, his
baritone: this song that of a different character. "We can kiss. The rolled
his head up, shocked by what his father had said. The boy, in a swift
movement, struggled up. His hand quickly jutted at Dad's belly which was
sore from dinner, he jumped and rubbed his cock on the boy's leg. The boy
didn't notice though, his eyes hadn't left his father as he climbed.

"What is kissing like," he said it so curiously.

"Why are you asking?"

"Because I see other people doing it but I don't remember doing it to
anyone."

His father put his lips together and pressed them warmly against the boy's
forehead. It was his boy, as if in his arms as an infant and he had been so
small then, voiceless and now he lay there with big blue eyes, eye brows
like sketch lines of expression on the portrait of a young man as a boy, his
nose like the littlest nub on a sugar cookie, his pouting lips a soft
curtain for a warm sighs and long yawns. The boy blinked.

His father was older. His lips were Juliet's lips, a door to breath,
hardened from the groans of weary agony, the moans of every man's life at
least. His breathing was starting to falter in regularity. His heart began
to race. His beard was rough, his skin was dark, tanned from an earlier
blast from the frigid winds of winter, the wine with the celebratory dinner,
and the blood ushered like a minion at the mercy of his adrenaline. He was
falling in love with his son. With the son that would grow like this in his
arms.

He bent his head like a Stag to his fawn. Then not like that.

It's hard to kiss such a small face, such a soft tissue the flesh of the
boy, his hardened face might hurt it. His son reached up with a small hand
and stroked the rough jaw. He smiled.

"I't'ckles." He said with the smallest voice.

His Dad's face narrowed in on the boy's, their noses neared like blimps that
might rupture if they touched in this weather, it was precarious, but then
the Dad let their noses touch and it was the first time it seemed they'd
ever touched and their faces exploded with passion, his Dad recognizing it
immediately, the Son never having really felt like this before. His Dad put
his large lips near the boy's slowly breathed a fiery warm breath up on his
mouth, a wind of wine and dinner and the heat of the blanket where such a
breath is in a furnace. The Son instinctively knew, Chad tucked his chin up
a bit, reaching for the lips and his father's was there to meet his in a
lion grip on his cub's: so dramatically the kiss unfolded then, like a rose
bit by a lion, burst into bloom, and the kiss was filled with such slow
flowing pedals.

His Father's arm suddenly held the boy's shoulders, warming it as it had
made it out of the blanket. When his father held the boy utterly in his
body's grip and let his tongue to the threshold of the boy's abandon and
licked the lips. The boy shivered. He squirmed his body a bit. His Dad's
tongue went in. Why was the boy squirming, he was mimicking was people do
when they kiss, his little dance, on his back, was what he thought lovers
did. His father stuck his long, hot tongue in the boy's mouth and then he
lay still again. His brave boy arm raised up to his father's large muscular
shoulder in a long-sleeved shirt that was tight to his every movement. His
father pushed the boy underneath him, the heat on the boy, the press of his
father's body, the tongue in his mouth, the pull and tug and the drug of a
kiss: his father found himself laying up on the floor as though he had found
love, he pulled off the boy's lips and touched them delicately with his
fingers. The boy gasped for air.

His first kiss. His eyes opened up and he couldn't believe what he saw. His
father was a smiling so warmly, a commercial about a fireplaces was on the
flickers of the orange from the tv made his father so warm. The boy felt
safe as though in the strong walls of a log cabin, with the fire going, the
thick blankets, the food, the survival, his dad there, even if this was just
a renovated town house in the heart of the city.

"That's a kiss."

"Cuz we love each other, right?"

"Do you love me Chad?"
"I love you Daddy."

His father softened. "Let's go to bed."