Date: Sun, 28 Nov 2004 06:39:34 -0500
From: XMarcelReyes@aol.com
Subject: the right guy

Dedicated to Joshy, the real life Matt. I have enjoyed being Chad, both in
this story, and in our own adventures.

All the standard disclaimers apply. Boy on boy love, man on boy love.
Scandalous father/son stuff motivates much of the story. Love kinda
motivates the rest. Don't read if not interested. Also, the story unfolds
in its own way. I think every INCH of it is spicy, but some may not. You
have to EARN the good stuff at the end, but hopefully you'll all agree that
everything leading up to it is well worth it.

Comments appreciated!
Email me at XMarcelReyes@aol.com

I enjoyed writing this story, I've been itching to for a long time. I've
certainly had the material for quite awhile. By the way, this work is
copyrighted. Yes, I like, paid money to do it! So look but don't
touch... unless it's yourself!

The Right Guy
By Marcel Reyes

There's always a point when, growing up, you take a peep in the looking
glass and realize who you are becoming. I was getting ready in front of my
mother's vanity, since the dressing room in my parents' master suite was
the only room in the whole house that made the process of getting ready to
go out a sacred, ceremonial ritual. I carefully ran the American Crew
pomade through my wavy, dark hair, pulling the brown strands away from my
face, revealing all of my teenage features: a dust of freckles on either
cheek, skin as clear and as flawless as it was smooth. I peered into my
eyes, their piercing gaze intensified by their molasses brown color, the
kind of dark brown that swirled with hints of gold. My lips were the most
feminine part of me, their full, pinkish color cut into a perfectly shaped
pout. I was amazed at myself, somewhere between the youthful good looks and
the chiseled, disciplined man I would grow to become, was me, slowly
turning into a new version of an already superior male-my father.
     I noticed it now, even better than I ever had before. my face was like
a blueprint of my dad's face, my visage was certain to resemble his but
still needed time and growth to fully be realized. I noticed the clean
lines cutting through the childish pudge of my face, lines that would
deepen as I aged, turning into rock solid, dramatic European features: high
cheekbones, an imperialistic nose, and jutting brow, as well as an immense
jaw. these craggy features would eventually overtake my youthful ones and
transform me from a feminine beauty in my boy years to a Roman soldier in
my twenties and thirties. an homage to the Italian and Greek roots of my
family lineage.
     When my hair was parted _, and a sleek, glossy wave traveled from the
part in the right side of my head over to my left ear, I studied myself
even further. How many times can I be shocked at how handsome I am and
still insist I'm not conceited? Here I was, with my perfectly sculpted hair
which in about an hour would end up all loose and spilling over every side
of my head again, and also my short-sleeved baby blue button- down, with
its collar popped up and its first button undone, just enough to see the
gentle rise of my developing chest muscles, and a bit of my collarbone, and
my long slender neck up to the luscious adams apple that heaved beneath my
handsome face. There was another advantage to showing so much skin. it
proved that my tan, perfectly even on my face, continued down over my neck
and onto my chest and to the regions below. my golden color pulsed right
through the cloth of my almost sheer knit shirt. My large, hard nipples
tented through the delicate fabric, and you could also see the lines that
defined my sturdy chest and my abs.
     "Hey dude," I heard a deep voice say behind me. I saw my dad watching
me staring at myself in the mirror, and he was smirking. I also saw that I
was smirking myself. I must have looked like such a self-absorbed ass.
     "Hey dad," I say, wrapping a scarf around my neck. I notice he is
wearing a blue- plaid Tommy flannel shirt, and some Lucky blue denim
jeans. He has kind of a lumberjack thing going on tonight, which is pretty
hot. He usually dresses this way at home, paying tribute to his Colorado
upbringing. Here in California, his corporate job made him wear Perry Ellis
suits day in, day out. He had practically every Geoffrey Beene tie that
Macy's offered for the past twelve seasons. Raking in a good 700k a year in
San Diego can take a toll on a farm boy at heart. That's why around the
house he wore the flannel shirts and jeans of his youth, albeit them being
of the pricier brands.
     "You look good son," he says, and then walks right up to me, pressing
his chest into my back, "just like I did at sixteen. You don't need a
mirror to verify that."
     "I'm not perfect," I say, not certain that agreeing with him about how
good I look would seem mature.
     "I disagree completely," he said, and then moved his hands onto my
neck. He let his fingers graze up my face and then with his thumbs he dug
into the cleft underneath my high cheekbones. "Your face is symmetrical,
like mine. If it wasn't for the darker features you get from your mother,
you'd be just like me. In fact, you're kind of the brunette version of me
right now."
     Dad was right, our faces did have symmetrical features. His eyes were
evenly spaced out, as mine were, the same distance from the bridge of his
nose, which also sat plainly just on the right spot on his face. You could
divide his face in half and fold it over and every feature would sit upon
its counterpart on the other side of his face, in exactly the same
position. Genetic perfection.
     He had blonde hair in his youth, but in his early forties his hair was
all silver and white, and he kept it short. He was clean cut, and his face
was kept smooth, but while my skin was freckled and young, his seemed like
it was made of a rougher material, but he had the same tan skin that I had
and it glistened, often making his face and body seem oily. The oily
complexion was fitting for him, though, because his body was absolutely
ripped. Muscles bulged everywhere, there were muscles within muscles, and
when he moved they all rolled around underneath his tense, taut skin, like
pool table balls rolling around underneath a leather cloth. Also, unlike
me, he had hair all over his chest and his stomach and a happy little trail
venturing down to the nether regions. But like I kept saying. same basic
face. the arrogant European nose, the wide and proud brow, the dramatic
jawline. he was breathtaking.
     Needless to say he was always getting attention from just about
everyone everywhere we went. Mother seemed resigned to it. She was a great
beauty herself, a sort of willowy, sleepy brunette. almost gypsy-like in
her feathery grace. Thanks to her, while my father aged much within twenty
years, I would be fighting off the gray color that would eventually invade
my head just like it did dad's until I was in my fifties. They both got a
lot of double takes and glances, but my dad seemed to rule whatever room he
was in. I both admired it and was fascinated by it.
     "Thanks for the compliments, dad," I said, putting on my North Face
jacket, a vinyl monstrosity with an elegantly large hood that was lined
with faux-fur. We had to dress warmly during these cold autumn nights.
     "Where you headed, kid?"
     "Chad's. Picking him up. We're gonna go watch-" I can't tell dad we're
seeing Bridget Jones-"Alexander."
     "What's that?"
     "New movie. Umm. Colin Farrel? Angelina Jolie? About Alexander the
Great?"
     "Oh. cool. Action film?"
     "Yeah I think so. It better be!"
     Dad clamps an approving palm onto my shoulder. "Well have fun and tell
Chad say hi."
     "Sure will dad," I say, heading for the bedroom door to head down the
stairs, "bye old man!"
     "OLD?!" I hear his voice boom as I make my way down the stairs.

I'm freezing on Chad's porch. Damn it, when will the fucker let me in?
	"Matt!" I hear a girlish voice exclaim. At first I think it's
Adina, Chad's sister.  But it isn't. It's Chad, hollering at me from a foot
away inside his warm multimillion dollar mansion.
	Chad's gay. I mean he is literally, but he's also a big flamer. I
don't know if my parents, with their somewhat backwards upbringing in the
southern Midwest, ever picked up on this ever since I started bringing his
ass into my home two years ago, when I started high school. Chad was even
gayer then, going through some lame candy raver phase, wearing big Jnco
jeans and pink shirts and lots and lots and lots of bracelets. Since then,
I suppose through hanging with me, Chad learned how to REALLY use his trust
fund money, and his taste for the finer things developed. Right now he was
decked out in all Chaps apparel. Kind of a middle class status symbol
brand, but still, it looked really good on him. He would never buy truly
expensive things, though he could surely afford with a trust fund that
boasted seven digits. He was kind of a simple guy, none of his friends were
rich, and none of his friends were straight either. Except me. I was rich,
and straight.
	Chad's body was so gentle, he was skinny, and like me, he had dark
hair that he actually kept shorter than I kept mine. He had light skin and
was Mexican and white, the white being a careful concoction of British
Isles and Finnish. He had both conquistador money from family dating back
to Cortez himself, and European money of equally scandalous
origin. Something in the romance of his pirate-ridden, high seas
adventuring past, echoed in the Chad I knew now and loved. a romantic,
adventurous, sentimental, and wise young man, who was so cute and
irresistibly that my straight little heart started to ache for him within
days of knowing him. He was so brave, so outspoken, loved by all in our
high school, where the en vogue of the gay best friend had taken hold
strongest (if any city in the world would have a gay-positive high school
experiences, it would happen in the cities of California). As my sidekick,
he provided the comic relief. I was the big track star, he was my
nonathletic assistant, but really there was so much more. I depended on
Chad for everything. moral support, a sense of humor, a voice of
reason. And he was a little hottie if I do say so myself, if he wasn't
hopelessly gay we would be tagteaming every debutante at Bronson-Alcott
High.
	Or maybe I'm not straight. I guess I'm figuring that part out. I
know I love girls and I had major beaver fever. Had to have pussy! But
there was something in the way that I loved Chad. He was just. my Chad.
	"It's about time, bitch," I say, pushing him as I climbed into his
house. I push too hard and I back him into a wall.
	"Well, well, well," he says breathlessly, and I know some lame gay
joke is about to surface, "if you're going to be that forceful, I
shouldn't-"
	"Cut it out," I say sharply. His face deflates a little, I think I
have hurt his feelings. I always questioned if he was attracted to me. I
guess I knew he in fact was, but we had such chemistry that the issue never
had to come forth. But I was sensitive to how he felt, even if I couldn't
reciprocate now (or ever), so I say, "I know how much you bottom bitches
love that force, but you really gotta learn not to bust a nut whenever you
get shoved into a wall by a 6 foot hottie."
	His face lights up, a LOT, and I crack a smile. Seeing him happy
made me happy.
	"You big bully," he whispers back as I release him. I run a hand
through his short dark hair and mess it up. He accepts my gesture much like
a little boy would accept it from his father. Then I ask: "Are you ready?"
	"Yeah, just let me grab my jacket." He has an identical North Face
hoodie, but his is in black while mine is light brown.
	We head out the door for the movie theater. Once there we have to
fight through crowds of our classmates, all wishing to have face time with
either me, or with Chad (in order to have face time with me
later). Inevitably we are two or three minutes late, and I reach back and
grab Chad's sleeve and pull him through the crowd. "We are soooo freaking
late!" I yell out. "I can't believe you're making me watch this gay ass
Bridget Jones movie, Chad!"
	He isn't saying anything, so I stop and turn around. I realize it
is not his sleeve I am holding, but his hand. And there's Chad, not looking
up at me, just staring at his own small, slender hand, in the grip of my
larger, more powerful hand. And then he does look up, and we make eye
contact. A big part of me wants to let go of him, to not have this queer
moment. But his eyes glisten like glass, and I just can't hurt him, I can't
watch those delicate eyes shatter right in front of me when I let go of
that hand. So I turn away, but I don't let go of his hand, and I pull him
through the hallway and into our theater. In fact, I don't let go of his
hand until we sit down. He still isn't saying anything, so I try to break
the tension with another sex joke.
	"Shit, Chad. When you're done cumming over my hand, let me know. I
want my friend back."
	"He's right here," Chad says solemnly, not looking at me. Where was
his sense of humor tonight? And why tonight, of all nights, is all of this
sexual tension going to bubble up and spill over? I decide to call him on
it.
	"Chad," I say. "We've been friends for a long time."
	"Yeah," Chad says.
	"Chad, you're my best friend in the whole world."
	"You're mine, too," Chad says, and even from my seat I can hear his
heart pounding.
	"But if this is going to work out," I begin.
	His face falls a little.
	"Then I have to be able to continue to trust you."
	"I understand," he says after a moment passes. The trailers start
screening on the theater, previews of upcoming movies.
	"Chad," I say.
	He doesn't respond.
	"Chad, you know how deeply I love you."
	Still no response.
	"But if you want me to love you the way you want to love other men,
then it's getting to be a little too much."
	"So what," he says, in a tone so sharp and so unfamiliar to me that
I feel a cut right in my heart, "so you don't want to be my friend
anymore?"
	"I didn't say that."
	"Mr. Big man on campus, big straight guy, starting to realize the
whole gay best friend thing really is just another Queer Eye trend from
corporate America?"
	"Chad, stop."
	He puts his hand on mine again. I shake it off, and look at his
face. His eyes are so fragile, and my heart is breaking for him. I've never
loved someone who didn't love me back, but if his face was any indication
of that pain, then I knew it had to be tremendous.
	"Matt, am I going out of style?"
	"No!" I whisper loudly.
	"Am I losing my flavor? Do you want to stop spending time with me
and start spending more time with those idolizing Bronson-Alcott High sluts
who follow you around and don't even know who you are?"
	"You're the only person I can stand to spend time with for more
than a few hours," I say, keeping my voice steady and emotionless. "You're
cool, you let me relax. I can fart around you. I can eat as much as I want
around you."
	"And sometimes you're nice to me. Sometimes you let me touch
you. Sometimes when we're alone in your room" his voice drops down a few
decibels, thank God, into just above a whisper, "you let me slip an arm
around you and let me pretend you're my boyfriend. Because you're a good
guy. And I know you love me. You don't want me to be hurt. But you can't
give me what I really want. Because you're straight. And letting me lay
beside you in bed while we talk about our futures won't make you gay for
me."
	"Chad. maybe not, but I'll be right there with you when you meet
that amazing guy, and I'll be the first to push you into his arms-"
	"And finally out of yours?" he says. "Well let me tell you
something about those Bronson Alcott sluts. They know your height and
weight. They know your hair color.  They know your gpa. They probably know
your favorite movie is Varsity Blues, and that your favorite song is
Getting It by the rapper Too Short. They can get all of that info from the
endless school paper and local paper articles about you and your impressive
sports career and your impressive academic career and your impressive
everything."
	I am quiet, so he goes on: "But Matt, only I know your favorite
movie isn't Varsity Blues. It's Best In Show, because you like Parker
Posey. In your own twisted way, you find her hot. But maybe Kate Bosworth
is a more marketable hot, so you claim Varsity Blues. And I know Getting It
is your favorite rap song, but while the other girls ran and bought all his
old albums in order to regale you with lyrics, to impress you with how down
with rap they are, they don't know that Getting It is actually the only rap
song you listen to. Only I know your favorite song of all time, just based
on how much we listen to it in your Escalade, is Run Around by Blues
Traveler. Oh and by the way, the papers say your favorite color is blue,
but you only say that because of our school colors.  I know your favorite
color is green, like my eye color, like the color of money, and the sea in
Maui."
	I am speechless.
	Chad. does know me.
	He knows me more than anyone.
	As if picking up my thoughts, Chad continues his tirade in an
almost whispering murmur, just as the house lights dim all the way and
Renee Zellwegger's face floods the screen: "And your favorite food is Stove
Top Stuffing. And I know for a fact that you own Spice World, ON DVD. And
you are a great snowboarder, but you also can figure skate. You enjoy art
and I know you like Renoir paintings the best. And I know what your dreams
are. You have a good heart. You long to save the world and be a big hero.
That would explain why your favorite television show is Buffy The Vampire
Slayer."  his hand slides over mine again. There's something different
now. Chad seems confident, less timid.
	"And," Chad says, "just so you know. I'm the Buffy, and you're the
Willow."
	I chuckle. "So wrong, dude. I'm the Buffy."
	"I'm the Buffy."
	"No, I'm the Buffy, and you're the Xander."
	"OH HELL NO, you know I hate Xander!"
	"But didn't you see him in Season 3, in The Zeppo? It kind of
redeems him."
	"It only reinforces how useless he truly is. You don't think I'm
useless, do you Matt?"
	"No," I say warmly. I feel myself surrendering to this. moment,
whatever it is. I let his hand remain on top of mine. It isn't like we're
holding hands is it? "You're never useless, Chad."
	"Damn straight," he says. He squeezes his fingers into my knuckles,
and the next thing you know our fingers are interlacing. Now this is
DEFINITELY holding hands. But when I look over at him, he seems
contented. He is watching the movie, and he isn't leaning over trying to
make out with me. It's like my hand is. enough. For now. And that's kind of
nice, after all, for me too. So I keep our hands that way for the rest of
the movie.

"Here you go, boys," Darlene says, handing us our burgers and fries. We're
eating at Johnny Rockets over near the Kodak Theater. We're the only young
people here, the other high school kids seem to be haunting the Knitting
Factory or any other number of punk rock venues that flank Hollywood
Boulevard.
	Darlene's our favorite waitress. Waiters come and go in the
L.A. food industry, variably getting picked up by producers, casting
directors, director directors, or porn directors. So the staff of any
restaurant comes and goes with the seasons (which in California, is two,
Spring and Summer). But Darlene was hardcore. She used to do REAL
waittressing. At a Dennys. In the Valley! And she had been at Johnny
Rockets for at least two years, as long as Chad and me knew each other and
as long as we had started to spend our Saturday evenings in touristville.
	"Holler if you need me, you lovebirds," Darlene says, walking
away. Lovebirds was a joking term she used to more or less tease Chad. But
tonight the words had a different flavor.
	I gazed into Chad's green eyes. They were amazing, as clear as
emeralds under a floodlight, or like the rare turquoise citrines that
glistened in the glass cases at Tiffany's.  Green was my favorite
color. Chad was staring right into my eyes as well.
	"Did you know," he said, "that your eyes have swirls of gold in
them?"
	Long moments of staring into the mirror made me privy to this
knowledge many years ago, but I played dumb. "Do they?" I asked.
	"You know they do," he grinned. Then his face turned
grave. "Matty," he said.
	"Chaddy."
	"What are we going to do?"
	"About?"
	"This whole thing. You and me."
	I sigh. I lean back into my chair, and bite my bottom lip. I do
this when I'm nervous. Chad is staring right at me and it makes me squirm.
	"I don't know," I say.
	"Do you want to make out to see if you're gay?"
	"No!" I cry out. Several of the patrons hear me and discreetly look
to our table. I sigh again and say, "No, I don't think I would be
comfortable with that."
	"You've never been curious?" he asks me. He asks as if he already
knows the answer. Flashes of a hard, muscular naked form flit through my
mind. The face is obscured, as if in shadow, but I know whose body it
is. It's my dad's. The only man I have ever really admired physically. Up
until Chad asked me this question, I always dismissed my fascination as
healthy heterosexual competitiveness. But now.
	"Chad, if this is phase three of your homo seduction, then you're
losing me here."  He looks a bit crushed, so I give a little, "I mean, I
was happy to hold your hand tonight.  It meant a lot to me. But if you're
going to jump from that to sex, then I'm getting off this train."
	"I just wanted a kiss," he says in a whiny voice. I have to admit,
he looks cute with his boyish frown and his big green eyes looking all
sad. Such a pretty face. But he is also a boy. I weigh the decision for
awhile, I take a few minutes to turn it over again and again in my
head. I'm a man of the new millennium; I'm not bound to misogynistic or
homophobic social traditions. As a heterosexual male, I would be useful to
the world in the perpetual battle against homophobia. But if I ended up gay
in the end, then I'm not an open-minded liberal male. I'm a minority, and
I'm fighting for my OWN people, and my own rights. This is. in fact. an
enormously big deal.
	"Sleep over tonight," I finally say.
	"I didn't bring my stuff," he says, acting like he isn't the
happiest fag in the world right now.
	"You may or may not get a kiss tonight. If it happens, I'm
initiating it. And we do it my way. It may or may not be tender. I haven't
kissed someone like I cared about them before, certainly not girls I've
fucked in the past, and maybe not you either. But you know if it happens,
it will be no small thing for someone like me."
	"But Matt, one problem."
	"What Chad?"
	"I WANT to get kissed by you."
	"Well don't campaign for it, and it just may happen."
	"Well what am I supposed to do?"
	"Just act like it's a normal sleep over. And be yourself."
	"Oh god. Cool the be yourself shit. You're reading like an 80's
P.S.A."
	"Well Chad," I say, cocking an eyebrow at him, "being yourself is
what got you this far."
	Chad smiles, very very warmly. His eyes are as brilliant as the
night sky. He is glowing. "Are you saying I can win you over, Matty?" Chad
asks me.
	"Maybe," I say, "you could be the great love of my life! The one
who changes everything!" I mean it as a joke, but there's a determination
in his expression now that lets me know he's ready to fight.

We are at my house, at the dinner table with my parents. We're not having
dinner of course, but ice cream. This is only the THIRD time in TWO YEARS
Of knowing me that Chad has interacted with my parents. Mom seems happy to
hostess us, she went all out and set up an ice cream bar. She likes Chad a
lot. I can't put my finger on why.
	Something about an ACLU sponsored gay pride event flashes on tv
screen. My family freezes up. My mother and I are both very liberal, but my
dad is outspokenly homophobic. Distressed, I look to mom for support. She
finally puts it all together: Chad's gay.
	Dad doesn't say anything too terrible, except a very pronounced:
"EWWW."
	I bite my bottom lip. Chad looks up. Oh no.
	"What?" Chad says calmly.
	"This gay rights stuff. Can't believe it."
	"Can't believe what?"
	"Oh you know," my dad says, suddenly looking uncomfortable, as if
he's just piecing together what mom just did. "Nevermind."
	"Oh, Mr. Phelps," Chad says determinedly. "Just because I'm gay
doesn't mean I expect you to censor yourself in your own home."
	"Excuse me," my dad says, getting up and leaving the room. My mom
is SWIFT to smooth things over.
	"Oh he's just being silly," mom says in an overly friendly voice,
"Chad you're always welcome in our home."
	"Nice to know another one of us is who isn't an interior
decorator," Chad snaps.  Now I get a little angry.
	"Chad," I say, "my mom isn't the one who was mean to you. You don't
have ot be defensive around her."
	My mom looks uncomfortable. She isn't equipped for this kind of
open dialogue.  So she excuses herself, but places a hand on Chad's back in
support, to let him know she's alright.
	"Sorry, Matt," Chad says.
	"It's cool," I sigh, more irritated at my dad than anything else.
	"I really want him to like me," Chad says.
	All of a sudden I feel defensive. "Why?"
	"Huh?" Chad asks.
	"Why would you want my dad to like you?"
	"Um, cause he's your dad."
	"Exactly," I say, snottily.
	"What?"
	"He's my dad."
	"He's your dad, so..?"
	"So don't forget that," I say.
	"Oh shit," Chad says, exasperated. "I don't want your fucking
father!"
	"Why not? He's hot, good looking, successful. Who doesn't want my
dad? Why should my gay best friend not want to get him in the sack?"
	"Oh gosh," Chad says, placing his fingers to his forehead and
squeezing. ::I can't seem to say any of the right things tonight."
	Suddenly my dad bursts back into the room. "Matt," he says. He is
smiling for some reason.
	"Yes?" I respond.
	"Can I borrow Chad for a minute?"
	"Why?" I ask, as if Chad's not right there.
	"I think I owe him an apology and some clarification."
	"Sure," I say. I'm too irritated with Chad to take the time to
notice the remarkable humanitarian feat my dad is pulling off.
	But it is after dad and Chad are gone to talk for over 45 minutes
in his study that I realize that they have been gone an awfully long time.

I'm being a prick to Chad all night. We are in my room trying to watch
Finding Nemo.  After over an hour of uncomfortable silence, Chad says:
"Matt?"
	"Yes?" I say.
	"It's almost midnight."
	"Mm hmm."
	"Well that means we are probably gonna nod off soon."
	"So?"
	"So." Chad says, scooching closer to me. "If I'm ever going to get
kiss, it better happen soon."
	I groan. "I thought we talked about this."
	Chad places a hand on my shoulder, and I shake it off. "Matt," Chad
asks, genuinely befuddled. "Matt, what is wrong?"
	"What did you and my dad talk about?" I ask, looking him dead in
the eye.
	Chad freezes up. I notice this. He notices that I notice, and he
tries to loosen up.
	"He just apologized to me and explained his views," Chad said.
	I don't like his brief answer. It doesn't take 45 minutes to do
that. What else did they talk about? I don't like the way Chad froze up
either.
	Chad sees the distress on my face. He must have read it as
insecurity (Is that what it really was though?) because he places a hand on
my shoulder. This time I don't bother shaking it off, but the look I give
him is icicles.
	Chad leans in and kisses me. I shove him off me.
	"CHAD!" I scream.
	Chad scrambles to his feet. I realize now he is only in boxers and
a tee shirt. So am I of course, but. to really notice how sparsely dressed
we are. how close we are.Or, actually, how close we WERE. Because now, a
very sad Chad is heading to the bedroom door.
	"Chad." I say slowly.
	"It's fine, Matt," he says sharply, closing the door behind him. I
hear his feet, his cute little feet, scampering off down the hall, and I
try to figure out exactly how many pieces his heart has been broken into,
and if me admitting my own heartbreak to him would make his pain any
better, or fairer. Never before have I wanted to love someone as much as I
wanted to love Chad. Wanted to. But I don't think I did.

I lay in bed for a long time. Just thinking. Half dozing off. Finally I
muster up the energy to look at the clock. It is 2am. I decide to look for
Chad. I get up, stretch, scratch my stomach, and head out. The house is
dark. I descend the steps. At the first landing, I think I hear Chad's
voice. I peer out into the darkness and see nothing. I descend the second
flight of steps. Now I can definitely hear Chad's voice.
	I follow it through the living room and I realize its coming from
the kitchen, where lights are on. When I hear a deep male voice, I decide
not to use the swinging door that leads into the kitchen, and go all the
way around the house so I can look into the kitchen from the den. Peering
from around the corner, I look, and am paralyzed.
	There, right on the bar, is Chad, straddling the enormous figure of
my father. My dad is in his sleeping robe, its open, and Chad's lithe young
body is bouncing on top of him at a steady pace. After my eyes can make
sense of the scene, my ears can make sense of the dialogue.
	"Oh fuck, Mr. Phelps," Chad says, his voice obscenely effeminate,
like a whimpering dog. "Fuck your cock is so huge."
	"Shut the fuck up, faggot," my dad says, pinning his enormous hands
onto Chad's shoulders and slamming his little body onto his cock, which is
in fact huge. I can see, as Chad rises up and the insides of his asshole
pull away from the large cock, that it is at least eight inches and very
very thick. Chad's tiny little hole hardly seems enough room for it as it
lands again on the bed of dark pubic hair.
	"Fuck yeah, Mr. Phelps. Call me a faggot. It gets me hot."
	"Shut UP!" my dad says gruffly, pulling hard on Chad's hair,
causing his whole body to lean back. Meanwhile, Chad continues to bounce up
and down on my dad's lap, his body totally puppeteered and controlled by my
dad's enormous hands, which thrash him around. "You little fag. Is this
what my son gets out of hanging out with you? Access to your slut ass?"
	"I haven't done shit with your son," Chad says helplessly, somehow
accepting my father's harsh pummeling into his spleen.
	"Good. My son's too good to give his prize cock to little fag shits
like you."
	"Oh yeah?" Chad says, peering down into my father's face. Chad's
sweat drips onto my dad's sweaty face, my dad's mouth twisted into a half
snarl. Dad is loving fucking the shit out of my best friend. "Then I
suppose," Chad says, "you're NOT too good to fuck fag shits like me?"
	"I've fucked a million of you in this business," dad says, "and you
all disgust me.  And ever since Matty started taking you around my home, I
knew exactly what you were, a little bottom boy who loves to get fucked by
big breeder dick. That's why you clung to my son, that's why you're letting
his dad fuck you now. Cause you're a slut!"
	"Yes, I am a slut, Mr. Phelps," Chad says. His body kind of curls
up into a fetal position on my dad's lap, but is still moving up and down,
taking dad's huge dick. He has surrendered complete control. It is at this
point I Realize I have been jackingoff as long as I have been watching.
	"Say it again!"
	"I'm a slut!"
	"Will you be my slut?"
	"Oh yes sir," Chad gushed, grinning. "God if only I'd be lucky
enough to have you fuck me all the time."
	"From now on, every time you're here I will fuck you. And if you
stop by my office I Will fuck you there. You're basically going to let me
breed your ass every time I want. And I'll tell you exactly why. Because my
dick. is AMAZING. Isn't it amazing?"  Dad asks as he spins Chad around on
his cock, letting Chad face me, not that Chad sees me or is even looking
around. Dad's hands move to Chad's tits and start to furiously grope and
pinch his nipples.
	"Yes sir," Chad says, and I see the drool drip from his bottom
lip. He is actually salivating. Meanwhile my dad has the cruelest
expression on his face. He looks mad, pissed of, angry. His eyes have a
wild, hungry light in them. His lips are still in that snarl.
	"My cock is your sustenance. You're going to live off it. You'll
suck its cum and drink its piss. It'll be your drug. You'll wander around
dreaming about it when you don't have it inside you. You understand?"
	"Yes sir!" Chad says, starting to cum all over himself. He cums and
cums and shoots all over his chest and stomach. Dad just swirls his hands
in it, and keeps Chad going. Chad remains hard.
	"My cock is nine inches of hard, solid beef. I've never gotten a
complaint. Do you have any complaints?"
	"No sir," Chad says. And then I see something change in Chad's
face. His eyes are completely closed, and up until now his face has looked
euphoric. But then I See Chad's brow furrow, as if
concentrating. "Actually, sir," Chad says lowly, "I do have one complaint."
	"What the fuck is it?" dad asks Chad, slamming harder than ever.
	"You're just not fucking me hard enough," Chad says tactically. "I
bet Matt can do a WAY Better job than you, Mr. Phelps. And you can't expect
me to be your call boy if you can't fuck me any better than I think your
son would."
	I almost spew my load at the implied compliment. But I also know
Chad's working my dad.
	My dad doesn't say anything, but he pulls Chad's head back and for
the first time, I see my dad start to trear Chad like a lover. He starts
sucking on Chad's neck and licking it, biting gently, trying to leave a
love bit. He pinches even harder on Chad's already bruised chest. And then
he slowly pushes Chad down onto the kitchen table, which is only a foot or
two from the bar. Chad gets down to a doggystyle position, and all of a
sudden my dad starts to fuck him even harder.
	The pace is frenzied, dizzying. Dad pummels him, pistoning in and
out, like gearwork, like a fucking machine. I can almost hear Chad's ass
shattering. But still Chad takes the fierce punishment. Dad is fucking him
hard. Slamming. Pounding. AND Chad starts to whimper, finally realizing the
pain.
	"Oh shit!" Dad says. "I'm gonna fucking breed your ass! I'm going
to fucking cum! Oh shit, you're such a slut. You're my little slut. I've
been waiting for the right kid to come along who can take my big daddy
dick. And now I've got you."
	"You've got me forever, Mr. Phelps," Chad says, blowing his load
again. It is right then that I blow my load too, finally. I cum all over
myself, I shoot right into my left eye. And now it's dad's turn.
	"OH FUUUUUUUCK!" Dad cries out. "Here it comes, bitch! Here I
fucking Come! Take it! Let it fill you up!"
	Dad shoves his cock deep inside Chad's ass. Dad exhales loudly, and
his sweat soaked form quivers as he deposits his load inside Chad. Chad
trembles as his intestines get hosed down by dad's baby batter.
	"That's prize cum," Dad says as he leans down to murmur into Chad's
ear, "a lotta people out there want that cum. Including my wife. Maybe
Matt. My secretary.  Everyone I know. So you're damn lucky to take this
load." I guess he stopped cumming, because he pulls out, but then I see him
shoot some more into Chad's ass. Perfect aim. I don't take the time to
wonder why dad mentioned me wanting his cum. I had never let it show, did
I?
	After he finished jazzing, dad amazes both Chad and me by stuffing
his semi-hard dick back into Chad's newly lubed ass, and fucks him
again. This time it's a shorter, soundless, nonverbal fuck. Chad is draped
lazily across the kitchen table. Dad fucks him for only two minutes, then
he deposits a second load into Chad's ass. At this point I turn away and
scamper up the stairs. I guess I don't want to hear the fallout, or what
arrangements they may or may not make.

I guess I'm a bit hurt. I feel a lot of things. Jealousy. At Chad, for
getting a chance to be fucked by the only alpha male in my life I have ever
fantasized about. But I'm also jealous at my dad, because I do love
Chad. Yes, of course I do.
	I decide to wait for Chad, in my room, because I know he will come
back. And he does. He walks in to my fully lit room, surprised to find me
awake. He seems incredibly lost, as if he too hasn't processed what has
just happened. He only has boxers on. In his hand is a white card. I know
it's my dad's business card. Before he gets a chance to say anything, I
walk right up to him, and I sock him right in the face!
	His body topples over. I am shocked by my own violence, and I
realize I am not at all angry, just kind of sad. Sad because I Would have
been the one fucking Chad. Sad because I may have lost him to a more
superior lover. Chad is crying on the floor, a crumpled heap, a mess.
	I pick up his delicate body. It smells like my dad's cologne. I
carry him myself to my own bed. He is sobbing uncontrollably. He must be so
confused.
	"Shhh," I say softly. "I'm so sorry. I will never hit you again. I
saw. everything.  I didn't know how I felt."
	"I don't even know what happened," he said. "I went downstairs, and
he just started flirting with me, and he opened up his robe and his body
was so sexy, and I just took him into me. I didn't even think about it. I
didn't even think about you at all, Matt."
	I bite my bottom lip. I'm nervous. It's all hitting me now. My dad
has a secret gay life. My dad doesn't sleep with my mom. And my dad may or
may not want to get together with me, judging from my name drop in the sex
dialogue earlier.
	"Chad," I say softly.
	He won't look at me. He looks like he's in pain. The place in his
face where I socked him is starting to welt up.
	I get up and move his body around. I get him on all fours. It is
only after I have lifted his ass into the air that he realizes what's
happening. "Matt?" he asks me, he turns his head around and sees me staring
at his ass.
	"I love you, Chad," I say solemnly.
	"I love you too, Matt," Chad says, bursting into tears and turning
his face away from me.
	"There's two things I know right now that I want. Your ass, and my
dad's dick."
	Chad pushes his ass into my face, as if saying, "take it!"
	"And I figure if I eat this ass right now, I'll have the best of
both."
	"Oh God I love you Matt," Chad says quietly. There's something
desperate in his voice. He needs something validated.
	I say nothing more, and start going for it. I plunge my face into
his as. I don't fuck around with technique or skill, I just go for it. I
get my tongue way in there, and I let my teeth graze and nibble at the wiry
little hairs sticking out of his rosebud of an asshole. Its swollen, I
Realize, from my dad's fucking. That only gets me hotter.
	At one point I pull back, just to look at my own feast. I see that
I have unplugged his as, and my dad's cum is now freely flowing out of
it. I watch a small river of white flow down his inner thighs. I lick up
his thigh, trying to catch every drop. HIS whole body shudders. I return to
his as, and tongue at it for awhile, trying to unplug the rest of my
father's hot seed.
	Eventually, I stop tongueing it, and just put my mouth to it and
suck. I suck and suck, drinking all the fluids of his ass. I lay on my back
on the bed, and I guide his ass down onto my face. He slowly backs into it,
and in a minute he is sitting on my face, and as I drink and lightly flick
my tongue into his pussy, his balls rest on my nose and I am looking up his
body, and into his face where he is in ecstacy.
	Once his ass is drained, he remains seated on me. I don't mind, he
could sit on it forever, I look his gentle weight on top of my face. He
runs his fingers through my hair, and I close my eyes, I smell the must
from his cock and ass, and I let his fingers dally through my hair.
	Eventually he rises up off of me, and he crawls over to the head of
my bad. I get up too, and I turn to look at him. I realize he is butt naked
and I am actually still in my boxers and tee shirt. I want to do so much
more tonight, but somehow I'm fine with what just happened.
	I leave the room and I run downstairs. Dad is gone, which is
good. He must be asleep in my parents' room. I grab a towel and wet it,
then I fill it with ice. I run back up to my room. There's Chad, crying
again. I don't say anything, and I place the ice pack on his face, over
where I punched him. And I hold his hand.
	A lot of time passes. "Matt?" I hear him finally croak.
	"Yes," I say, and then choke up as I try to get the rest out, "my
love?"
	I watch his face as his eyes fill with tears yet again. I realize
I'm all he really wants. At least I try to think that I am. For the first
time in a long time, I feel insecure.
	"I only want you," he says. He closes his eyes.
	"Please," I say, and finally my own tears are coming forth. "Please
mean it."
	"I do," Chad says, his eyes still closed, but tears coming out of
the corners.
	"I'm scared," I confide. "You have to love me. You GOTTA Love me,
Chad."
	"I only love you," Chad says, his voice sobbing.
	"I need you," I say. "Love only me. You have to love only me!"
	"I love only you," Chad repeats.
	"You can't love him," I sob.
	"I don't."
	"You can't," I say. I squeeze my eyes tight, I squeeze his hand
tight. He squeezes his hand back and then pulls in close. I wrap my arms
around him. So much has happened in a day. But the drama was worth it. for
the right guy, wasn't it?
	I fall into a dreamless sleep. When I awake, it is noon. Chad
hasn't left me. My bedroom door remains closed. I run my fingers through
his hair. I see the welt on his cheek, and I feel deep guilt. I stand up,
and I tuck him in. I decide to go downstairs and make breakfast for him. As
I spring off the bed, I notice a white card on the floor. I pick it up. It
is my dad's business card, the one he gave to Chad last night.
	Momentarily, I blink back tears. I'm still jealous. I take a look
at Chad, asleep in my bed, and my heart overflows with love. I tuck the
card into Chad's jeans on the floor.  I decide that I'll leave these
choices to him, and I'll deal with the repercussions as far as they affect
my home.
	I go back over to Chad's sleeping form and plant a kiss on his
forehead. To my disappointment, he stirs, and wakes up. And then I realize
I'm not disappointed at all, though I've lost the opportunity to surprise
him with oatmeal and pancakes (his favorite).
	I'm not disappointed because I Am happy he's here, that he exists,
and is alive.
	He opens up his arms and pleads with me: "Come."
	So I climb back into bed and, happily, full of joy and serenity, we
make love for the very first time.