Date: Wed, 20 Aug 2014 14:35:09 -0700
From: Neil Entib <nifty_ntib@yahoo.com>
Subject: Suddenly Soap Opera

Disclaimer: You read this at your own risk.  If you're not supposed to
where you are, don't.  Though I can't stop you.



The endless flatland of western Kansas sprawled out far past the reach of
the high beams on my dad's rented Taurus, indicated only by faint lights on
the horizon and, about half an hour previous, a platoon of flashing red
lights atop dozens of wind turbines on the prairie.  I watched the shoulder
pass by in a blur before turning back to my iPad and dimming the screen so
I could play Angry Birds without disturbing his driving.

His expressionless face glowed teal from the dashboard lights, which we'd
found out soon after leaving Topeka that they could be almost any color.
Dad had chosen teal because it was soothing without putting him to sleep.
Or so he'd said, anyway.  I was finding it hard to stay awake, but that was
probably because midnight had come and gone and we'd run out of radio
stations that played actual music.

Why he'd decided to drive to Santa Fe instead of fly was beyond me.  His
company wasn't that cheap.

I cast a surreptitious glance past my screen.  Dad's face, a shade under
forty, looked much older in the light, but then again anything did.  He
didn't look too tired.  At least he wasn't nodding off.  I knew he'd wanted
to get an early start, but the Hertz guys had messed up and given away his
reservation and had to track down something that was neither a pickup truck
nor a panel van.  Our noon departure became four o'clock in the afternoon,
and for the first hour he'd fumed silently while I pretended not to notice.

I wanted to ask The Question, but didn't.  I knew Dad would stop when the
timing seemed right.  So I kept on playing and looked forward to sprawling
out on my nice comfy hotel bed when the time came.

"Nate."  An elbow nudged me awake, and I caught the iPad before it could
drop to the footwell, long since gone into standby mode.

"Sorry," I mumbled.  My mouth felt cottony and stale despite all the water
I'd drunk today.

"I don't care.  I was just gonna ask you how you felt about this fall.  Bad
timing in the middle of the night, but what're you gonna do.  I'm losing to
the road here."

This time I dared.  "When do we stop?"

"Half hour or less," he replied, glancing up to the glowing GPS that didn't
even have a destination programmed into it.  Dad liked seeing the road
unfold in front of us; it'd been like that all day.  Maybe I did know why
he hadn't decided to fly.

"What's there to talk about?" I asked, cradling the iPad in my lap.  It
wasn't like it was my decision anyway.  But I was still nervous.  After
three years of "bullying" in middle school, my parents had decided to
enroll me in the local Catholic high school in the hopes of sparing me more
trouble as I worked up to college.  They'd said they didn't want to see me
hurt anymore, but it was probably more like they didn't want the bullies
going to the same school after I fought back.

True, it had gotten me suspended for a week, but the day after I shoved
Jesse Belmont into a locker and dislocated his shoulder Dad treated me to a
secret steak dinner at the fancy place in Topeka.  He'd told me he was
proud that I'd acted like a man instead of a peacenik.  Mom tried to seem
disapproving but I knew she was glad I defended myself.  The school,
though, did its zero-tolerance thing.  Jesse got a week too, but only
because the cameras in the hallway caught him ripping my backpack open and
spilling all my crap on the floor.

Jesse won't even look at me now, and nobody's touched me since.  Plus
school's been out for a couple months and I'll likely never see any of them
again.  That's all I have to say about that.  Chubby Nathan Lewiston has a
mean streak.  Well, I really don't, but they didn't have to know that.  Now
I won't have to worry as much, aside from getting good grades.

Dad drummed his fingers on the steering wheel.  Sirius XM played some Billy
Joel.  "A lot, potentially.  You're a good Methodist kid going to a
Catholic school."  He seemed to forget that I stopped going to church years
ago, and neither he nor Mom made a fuss.  They only did the
Easter-Christmas thing anyway.

"Pretty sure I can handle some masses.  As long as I don't eat Jesus by
mistake."

He chuckled softly.  "I don't think that'll be a problem.  But you'll be
one of the youngest freshmen there, don't forget.  You don't turn fourteen
until November."

"Don't remind me."

"Too late."  It wasn't like I cared too much.  Even if I didn't fit in for
some reason, I could study and read like I did all through middle school.
But when we toured the place everyone was so friendly.  It didn't seem like
I'd have much trouble.  I had almost six weeks of summer left to prepare,
anyway.

"I mean, I don't think it's that big a deal.  Not like I had a lot of
friends to lose from there anyway."

"Well, yeah," he mumbled, kind of uncomfortably.  I knew he wanted me to be
more social, and I had promised myself I would at least try to make
friends.  There was band and choir, but I knew Dad wanted some non-geeks in
there somewhere.  "I suppose we'll cross that bridge when we come to it."

"Yeah."

Dad didn't respond, and I didn't really feel awkward considering the
discussion.  We knew each other well enough by now that there was no
pressure unless he put it out there in the open.  Neither of us could
predict what would happen in the coming year, so he left it at that and I
let him.  After midnight, what else could we do?

I managed to get through three more levels of Angry Birds before Dad began
to slow down approaching a town.  Once it got down to thirty miles per hour
a sign declaring "Liberal" passed by.  Population twenty-one thousand
something, probably the largest town since we hit Wichita.

"Alright, I think I've had it for today.  There's a gigantic gas field in
this part of the state, and I heard the small-town motels fill up all the
time with workers.  Not gonna risk it."  He yawned.  "And I'm freaking
tired."  I breathed a small sigh of relief, hoping he let us at least get
eight hours before heading out again.

"Where's the motel?" I asked.

"Don't know yet," he said, craning his neck to search for signs.  "I'm just
going to assume all these ones on the main drag are full, so look down the
side streets for something on your side and I'll do my side."

"Okay."  The town was completely, utterly dead, with the exception of one
big semi truck with triple trailers that passed us going the other way out
of town.  All the streetlights blinked yellow, and there weren't many of
those either.

We passed a Motel 6, a Super 8 and a Best Western, all with "NO VACANCY"
signs out front.  Dad was right.  But I looked as far as I could down past
the corners, and spied an orange sign that looked like a motel.

"Down there!"  I pointed as he passed, dragging my finger back behind me.

Dad put on his turn signal, kind of unnecessary this late at night, and
cranked the wheel.  "Alright, let's give it a go."  He made two more right
turns to bring us up behind the sign, and I smiled when I saw it really was
a motel after all.  The Pacific Motel, which was kind of ridiculous
considering where we were.  The sign didn't say "NO," which was
encouraging.  "I'll be back," he said in a really bad Arnold Schwarzenegger
voice before parking the car and leaving me in the dark.

Just when I was considering firing up the iPad again, I saw his silhouette
in my door's mirror.  The trunk popped open and I knew we were good.
"Yes!" I whispered, getting out and shaking the stiffness from my legs.
The night was humid and not cool enough for my tastes, and I hoped I
wouldn't break a sweat before we got to the room.  I felt dirty and
uncomfortable as it was.

"We're down toward the end on this side," he said, taking out suitcases.
"I'm too tired to move the car, so there."  Once I could reach my backpack
I slid the iPad inside and shouldered it, rolling my luggage behind Dad,
who had an identical suitcase in addition to a duffel bag.  His walk had a
bit of a shuffle to it, and I realized he was probably a lot more tired
than he let on.

He stopped in front of the second room from the end, and produced a key
from his front pocket.  An actual key, with a big ugly piece of plastic
attached that had the room number on it: 118.  It jangled as he twisted it
and the door opened onto a dark space.  After feeling around and finding
nothing, Dad swore under his breath and just walked in.  The bags were
tossed to the side while he groped around, and as soon as I shut the door
behind me he found a light over the bed and switched it on.

The bed.  The one bed.

Dad must have seen my crestfallen, and probably angry, face.  "Don't you
start with me, Nate," he pointed a stiff finger at me.  "It was either this
or a two-queen smoking room, and I erred on the side of you being able to
breathe through the night instead of having your own bed."

I began several sentences that ended up as frustrated grunts, because by
the third grunt I knew he was right.  If I had to sleep in a room with
smoke smell in it, I wouldn't sleep at all and I'd be miserable all the
next day.  So I said, "Okay" in a mopey voice but didn't press the issue.
Dad had been driving all day and I had just sat and played games instead of
reading one of the summer-reading books I'd been assigned before I even
started high school.  At least Animal Farm had talking animals, even if it
was a satire of communism.  Or so the syllabus told me.

"We'll make it work," he reiterated, hefting his suitcase onto the bed and
opening it to fish for toiletries.  "It's one night, and I'll give you as
much room as you need.  Man, I'm tired."  He grabbed the Ziploc bag that
held the "wet stuff," as he called it.  The stuff that you kept in the
shower and got wet, and you didn't want the slime to get all over the rest
of your toiletries.  I learned that from him after my first scout trip away
from home.

"Go ahead and get your night stuff out," he said before grabbing his pajama
pants and turning to head into the bathroom that looked way too small for
anyone to catch a decent shower in.

I sighed as soon as he closed the door, looking around the room.  I
wouldn't say I'm spoiled, but it definitely wasn't what I was used to.
Dad's usual hotel of choice was Embassy Suites.  He even had a
frequent-stay card and collected points.  But this trip was kind of out of
his control, and the nearest town of any good size was hours away.  The
room had one bed, a tube TV, a tiny bathroom and décor from the late
eighties, but it wasn't dirty.  I just hoped it didn't have bedbugs.

Shoving Dad's suitcase to the side with mine, I opened it up and unzipped
the top half to get at my own "wet stuff" bag.  Shampoo, conditioner, and
body wash, since hotel soap tends to dry out my skin.  Also, bar soap gets
super slimy and even putting it in its own bag doesn't help much.
Containers don't keep the slime in, either.  Yuck.

The water in the bathroom turned on and I heard Dad climb in, pulling the
curtain closed.  Then something clattered on the bottom of the tub,
probably one of his bottles.  It never failed, no matter how many hotels we
stayed in, no matter the city.  If something didn't fall in the shower,
something was very wrong.  It was like some sort of weird family tradition.

I pulled off my shirt and threw it on the bed, followed by my pants after I
kicked off my shoes.  Man, it felt good to be out of those.  I stretched in
my undies, letting the waistband slip below the shelf of my belly, not
caring because those would be off soon anyway.  I grabbed the remote and
turned on the television, flipping around until I found Cartoon Network and
left it there because all the local channels had ended broadcasting for the
day.  It was a really small town.

Less than thirty seconds after I lay down on the part of the bed that
wasn't covered by luggage, the socks and briefs came off.  I knew I
shouldn't be lying directly on the bedspread, but I was too tired to care.
It felt cool and soft against my skin, and it felt kind of naughty out in
the open despite the room being private.  Being naked outside of a bathroom
always kind of carried that connotation for me.  Also, I couldn't help
thinking about all the people before me who had slept in this room, and
what they had done.  Tens of thousands, as old as this place was.  Kind of
exciting and gross at the same time.

My hand made its way between my legs, as it usually did once I had relieved
myself of clothing.  I had found out my dick was good for more than peeing
back when I was seven, purely by accident.  You know, that one time you get
a boner and start playing with it instead of ignoring it?  I knew it wasn't
something you announced to the world, and I had tried to keep it secret,
but around age ten Dad had pulled me aside and suggested that I should try
not to fall asleep after finishing, as he'd twice found me sprawled out on
my bed still clutching my flaccid shaft when he'd come to tuck me in.

At first I was mortified, but he'd told me not to worry and it wasn't
weird.  Just that Mom wouldn't take it so easily being as she was a girl.
He'd handed me a book about my changing body (though I hadn't changed much
yet at all, aside from maybe more sweating) and told me to come to him if I
had any questions.  I read the book and had none.  And that was that.

It wasn't until about a week later that I really understood that my father
had seen me naked.  Not naked as in locker-room naked; naked as in
post-orgasm afterglow vulnerable naked.  And I didn't know how I should
feel about that, but I wasn't embarrassed.  If Dad said not to be, I
wouldn't be.

I lay with my legs splayed open, absently stroking the four-inch erection
I'd given myself, not with any other goal than feeling good for a bit.  I
was too tired to take it all the way, and I didn't feel like risking a mess
anyway.  At some point soon, though, I'd need to tend to my blue balls.
Thirteen-year-olds can be impatient with that stuff.

Dad yelped and something else clattered in the tub, startling me.  "Shit!"
he shouted, part of the Southern drawl he'd brought with him to Kansas
showing through.  For a second I considered throwing my shorts on and
checking on him, but I waited, sitting up, my boner poking me in the belly.
If he needed me, he'd ask.

"Nate!  I got some bad news," he shouted over the spray.

Sparing our neighbors, if we had any, I padded to the half-open door and
peered around the frame with my body out of sight.  "What?"  I expected him
to say the soap had slipped down the drain.

"We're gonna have to Philmont this shower."  My stomach jumped and my heart
sank in one fell swoop that dried my mouth out and absolutely killed the
remnants of my erection.

"Philmont" was the code word Dad and I had adopted for having to share a
shower to make the most use of hot water while it lasted.  Philmont is a
Boy Scout ranch in northern New Mexico, and Dad and I had gone with our
troop about a year after I had joined.  It had proved to be a crucible of
sorts for the both of us, as we had never been hiking in our lives and this
place was rugged.

We made it through relatively unscathed (but very sore), and the best
memory we have from the whole trip was one day when we had picked the last
two straws for showering.  The Scouts filled big black bags with water and
hung them in the sun to warm up throughout the day for hot showers, but the
guys had been selfish and hogged most of it.  Dad and I had about two
minutes of combined time before it ran out, so we had to make it count.  It
should have been embarrassing, but it turned out pretty exciting, tossing
the bar of Dial back and forth as we needed it.  And we got clean in those
two minutes.  And we've laughed about it ever since.

Until tonight.

I mean, this was close-quarters stuff.  I'd been in cheap motel rooms
before, and they build those places as if they were expecting munchkins to
move in.  Or the motel had been there since like 1955, when people were
smaller and didn't need so much stuff to drag around with them.  Either
way, I wasn't skinny by any means, and neither was Dad, who carried maybe
an extra thirty pounds past ideal.  I was the one with the baby fat still
stubbornly attached to my belly and butt.

"Nate, you'd better hurry up!  We're both gonna freeze!"  Dad's voice
carried a sense of urgency mixed with enough authority to convince me just
from the tone.  Something clattered to the bottom of the tub again.
"Shit!"

I gave myself enough time to sigh aggravatedly and at least grab my
Clearasil wash before stepping into the bathroom.  Directly in front of me,
with hardly any clearance for the door, sat the toilet.  And, to the left
of it, the sickly-pink tub with its off-white heavy vinyl curtain.  I had
just enough time to see a third of the plastic rings holding it on the rod
were either yellow or cracked before Dad yanked the curtain to the side and
nearly made me shriek in a voice puberty was trying to lower.  My hands
went to my crotch and ended up kind of holding the Clearasil bottle in
front of my junk, not really hiding anything.

Dad appeared not to notice.  I looked him in the eyes because elsewhere
would be weird.  "The goddamn hot water started to run out after a couple
minutes.  Must be a small tank, or just a crappy system.  Sorry, but we
can't luxuriate in a nice relaxing spray.  I'll make it up to you."  He
stepped back, pulling the curtain a bit with him, and closed it when I was
inside.  He reached up and directed the spray to my head.

"Oh my God," I gasped.  It was almost unbearable as showers go, and I could
feel my lungs working overtime already.  I almost dropped my bottle twice.
"Where's the shampoo?"

"Here."  He handed it to me and I squeezed out a glob and started to lather
up.  "I'd say I would write a nasty review of this place online, but I
doubt it even shows up on websites," he chuckled, and immediately lifting
the mood.  Sometimes, when he got into a sour mood, it rubbed off on
everyone around him.  I was glad he could see the lighter side.  I started
to rinse, turning this way and that, and my hip brushed his thigh.  Man,
this place was tiny.

"Did you finish already?" I asked as I slathered on some conditioner.  He
turned away from me and our butts touched.  Houston, we have moon landing.
It made me smile, remembering the good-natured horsing around at Philmont.
Then again, we'd had a whole clearing to make space back then.

"No, I got to the soap part when it gave up the ghost.  Good idea."  With
my eyes closed, I felt more than saw him reach above me to grab his trusty
bar of Dove from its perch on the corner shelf.  Motel soap makes him itchy
too so he brings his own, even though it gets slimy.  "Let me know when you
need it."

"'Kay."  I rinsed off the conditioner and went for the Clearasil, rubbing a
good bit into my face and standing out of the spray.  Soon, Dad's soapy
sounds went quiet.  I could tell the water was even colder now.

"How long until you can rinse that off?" he asked, a little annoyed again.

"Two minutes minimum."  When Dad got into an efficient mood I tried to echo
his short, clipped speech.  I yelped when I felt his big hands on my back,
rubbing the soap around and down, lifting each of my arms to get at the
pits.

"I just don't want either of us getting the ice cubes when they start
trickling out of that thing," he said, and I could tell he was smiling.  It
was a little rough, but it got the job done.  "See, this is how they do it
in Leavenworth."  That got me giggling, and the added swipe of his dick
over my thigh just topped off the joke.  Couldn't be helped in this
shoebox.

That was when the water decided to switch to volcano mode.  I felt the
little bits of spray like embers from a fire, but Dad got the full brunt
and jumped to the back of the tub, sucking air through his teeth and
batting the nozzle toward the wall.  The soap clattered to the floor.

"Jesus Christ!  Are you okay, Nate?"

"Fine.  I didn't even get sprayed."

"This motel is hazardous to our health, apparently, hehe."  I was glad he
was in such good spirits, all things considered.  I don't think I would
have been.  My mood was rapidly sinking, not least because the Clearasil
was running into my eyes and stinging them so I couldn't see.  I felt his
arm hairs on my back as he reached for the knob, and heard the squeak as he
turned it.  Soon the embers turned to something more bearable.  "Phew.
Grab that soap and finish up.  I told you that's how they do it in
Leavenworth.  'My name is Bubba, and you're my new bitch.'  Ha!"

"Glad you find this funny," I muttered under my breath, my eyes closed and
in pain.  Dad must have heard me, because the next thing I felt was the
sting of his palm on my butt and a couple jabs of something hot and hard.
"Oh my God, really, Dad?"  I was already having to brace my feet on the
sides of the tub, and my hands against the wall on either side of the
spigot.

"Don't talk back to me, boy."  He chuckled.  "No, really, I'm sorry.  Hot
water's always done that to me, doesn't matter the time or the place.  It's
out of my hands.  Or is it?"  I groaned and bent further, careful to go
slow so I didn't ram my nose into the spigot.  With my free hand, I
searched around the drain, my fingernails scraping along the surface of the
bar before finding purchase.  I considered asking him to steady me, but I
didn't want to make things more awkward than they already were.  Bed
couldn't come soon enough.

Palming the soap, I brought it up and clutched it to my chest, which in
retrospect wasn't the best idea.  It squelched right back out of my grasp,
and I automatically launched both arms out to catch it.  With my eyes
closed it was impossible, and as I heard it clatter to the floor for the
third time I began to lose my footing.  I shrieked in a register that
confirmed puberty hadn't finished with me yet, and flailed.

"Nate...Nate!" I heard Dad say before his voice was drowned out in a flurry
of squeaks and thuds as I fought to stay standing while blind and soapy.
My head bashed the knob and stars burst behind my eyelids, and then his
hands were on my hips and fire erupted at the base of my spine, blooming
through my gut as if I'd been run through by a hot poker.  Dad sucked in a
harsh breath and dug his nails into my skin, but we both remained standing,
pinned to the back wall of the shower.

Tepid water ran over my head, washing the Clearasil away.  I rubbed the
blur from my eyes until I could see the tub below me, and tried to stand
up.  More fire blossomed between my legs, and we both gasped.

"Ow..."

"Are you okay?" Dad asked.  I noticed his hands were trembling, alternately
flat and clenched on either side of my butt.  That's when I started to
piece it together.  "Nate, don't move."  I tried to move anyway, and the
pain was excruciating, like alcohol on an open wound.  I didn't need to
piece anything together anymore.  I bent slowly to look back between my
legs and saw Dad's scrotum dangling low and loosely, right behind mine.

This is how they did it at Leavenworth.

"Just...hold on," he said.  "Let me think."

"I'm not going anywhere," I whimpered.  I could feel my pulse in my rectum,
around the length of my dad's dick, on which I had somehow perfectly
impaled myself.  It was unreal.  But the pain was not.

"Okay," he said, breathing deeply.  "Okay, first we need to rinse off.  The
soap will only make it sting.  Just don't move, Nate.  I'm sorry."  I
didn't know what he needed to be sorry for.  Other than having an
inappropriate boner, it was both our faults.  Though he was the one who'd
been playing around.

Little stars still danced in my vision, but I breathed deep a few times and
they stopped.  "Can't you just take it out?"  I grasped for the spigot and
leaned forward a little, immediately regretting it, howling.  It felt like
a branding iron was spreading me open.  Gasping, I willed myself to stop
clenching around it if I possibly could.

"Nate, stop!  The head is bigger than most, and I've had trouble with it my
whole goddamn life.  Now please, let me move us together and get out of
here.  I'm so sorry..."

"It's okay."  Though it wasn't okay, it was far from okay, and once this
was over it still wouldn't be okay.

Dad moved as gingerly as he could, aiming the shower head so the water
washed the rest of the soap off, especially where we were joined.  I felt
his fingers on my butt cheeks and in between, where they paused.  He spread
the skin there, which didn't hurt, mercifully.

"No blood that I can see," he assured me.  "Good sign."

Getting out was a concerted effort, consisting of Dad guiding different
parts of my body in time with his so we didn't move around in my hole any
more than we needed to.  By the time we exited the bathroom the sharp,
burning pain had given way to a dull, hot throbbing deep inside.  I hoped I
wasn't bleeding internally.  We skipped the single towel on its rack and
walked wobbly like some drunken camel from the bathroom to the edge of the
bed.  I glimpsed our reflections in the mirror above the sink but I didn't
dare look directly.

I stared at the bed while I waited for Dad to decide the next step.  My
thighs were starting to tremble from the half-bent position.

"Nate?"

"Yeah?"

"In the top half of my suitcase.  Behind the mesh, in a plastic bag.
There's a little bottle that looks like a bullet.  I need it.  And spare me
the grief, please."  I shoved my suitcase off the bed and pulled his
closer.  I didn't know what he meant about grief and didn't much care.  I
did notice that his big hands on my hips, steadying us both, felt nice and
warm and weirdly comforting.  And he kept twitching his dick, but I
understood that much.  If it were me I'd probably not be able to control it
either.  I didn't know; I'd never fucked anything.

Behind the shaving cream I found the bottle, and it really did look like a
bullet.  Gun Oil, Silicone Personal Lubricant.  My face started warming up
in a blush, though I shouldn't have been surprised.  I was thirteen and I
knew about hand-on-dick stuff.  I just hadn't thought of my dad as doing it
too, not consciously.  It made sense, when your dick was right there for
you to grab and pull on.  But he'd packed this for the trip, which meant
that sometime, in one of the hotels we'd stay at, he would sneak this into
the shower with him and jerk a load out.  And I would get in right after
him and, at least since I turned nine or so, jerk right after him.  I would
have done it tonight, if we hadn't ended up joined between the legs.

I wondered about the times I'd showered after him and gotten horny only
after pulling the curtain closed.  Had I smelled something?  Come to think
of it, back at home where I had my own bathroom I usually needed more time
to get off than when he took me on trips.  I'd always attributed it to the
thrill of a new place or the thought of all the previous guests.

I got an urge to ask him how well the lube worked, but stifled myself.
Inappropriate question, inappropriate time.  Obviously if he was going to
use it to get me unstuck, it would do a good job.  Handing it back, I
realized I was hard, and I didn't necessarily feel proud of the fact.

Dad took the bottle from my hand and I heard him take the top off.  "Okay,
son."  That sounded so weird; he never called me that.  He was trying hard
to sound like a father, even more than usual, trying to subtract some of
the horrible weirdness.  Then again, usually he just talked normally to me,
unless I was in trouble.  "I have good news and bad news."

"Okay..."

"The good news is I can fix this with very little pain.  The bad news..."
He paused, and sighed, and drummed one foot on the carpet like he was
struggling with himself.  "The bad news is I have to...Jesus Christ...I
have to, uh, finish."

I didn't know he'd started anything.  I had a couple blissfully ignorant
seconds before my brain put the pieces together.  My stomach did a giant
flipflop that made me feel ill.

"Why?" I asked/pleaded.  This had to be some sort of karmic hell, some sort
of universal retribution for too many personal sessions with my hand.
Hairy palms or blindness sounded real good about now.

"I know.  I'm sorry," he said.  "Your mom has the same problem."  He sighed
again, his belly hairs tickling my butt.  "Sorry.  Shouldn't have said
anything."

"It's okay."  Just like adding a twig to a bonfire.

"I've always had this problem.  I had phimosis; had to be circumcised at
fourteen because of it.  And it still causes problems."  The thought of
Dad's dick having been inside Mom so many times over the years made me
flinch.  But it belonged in her, not me.  I was the outsider, and for good
reason.  "I just want to get through this with as little pain as possible.
For you."

"Me too."

"I suppose we should get on the bed.  Uh...do you know what, um, doggystyle
is?"  His voice quavered on the edge of either a breakdown or tears, and to
be honest, I was about the same.  It pained me to hear him struggle so
much.  "That might be the most comfortable."

I nodded and, after some maneuvering and effort, I was able to get my knees
up on the bed, and so was Dad after going very slowly.  The motel mattress
bounced and compressed so it was kind of a balancing act, but once in
position neither of us was the worse for wear.  "It's easier on my knees,"
he said.  "More leverage.  I can't believe we're talking about this."  I
only hoped it wouldn't take long.  And it wouldn't hurt.

I felt a cold drip at the top of the crack of my ass that made its way down
to where we were joined.  Dad spread it around and under, which felt odd
but didn't hurt.  He swiped a bit off the back of my balls before it had a
chance to drip onto the bed.  "That was close," he said.  "Okay, Nate.
It's gonna be slow going until I can get enough lube in to where it moves
freely.  And then I'll just try to go slow.  It...it's how I usually do
it."

"Dad?"

"Yeah?"

"It's okay.  Really.  I know how stuff works, and it's already embarrassing
enough.  You don't have to feel weird."  There, I said it.  I gave him the
go-ahead to fuck me.  I just had to accept that there was no other way, and
Dad wasn't the kind of guy to lie about something like this, especially
after a long car trip and fatigue for both of us.  Not like we weren't wide
awake now.

His right hand meandered down to my thigh while his left remained on my
back, holding the lube bottle.  I lowered my head and looked between my
legs and saw his balls behind mine, bigger and hairier and lower, tensing
and relaxing while mine drew up tight.  "Okay."  And he began to move.

"Ah!"  It was weird.  Thank God it wasn't painful, but it was weird.  So
much weirdness.  Most of the sensation was around the rim, but I could feel
an achy pressure where his head moved around inside.  I had learned last
year that the rectum didn't have nerve endings, so he was likely pushing my
prostate.

My dick twitched, and I gasped.

"What?" Dad asked immediately, motionless except for his hips, just barely.
Another drip of cold lube made its way down my crack, worked in by the
movement.  I felt the friction melt away a bit, and something like an inch
slid out before I knew it was moving.  "What hurts?"

"Nothing.  It's fine."

He stopped then, and I could feel his eyes boring into the back of my head.
Waiting for me to say it really did hurt.  Waiting for me to tell him to
stop.  But we'd never get unstuck if I did that.  So, after thirty seconds
or so he started up again, both hands on my hips, going just hard enough
for the skin to start sliding and no more.  Eventually my hands got tired
and I dropped to my elbows to wait it out.

Around the five-minute mark, when Dad had added enough lube so that I could
hardly feel anything, I started thinking, which might not have been the
best thing to do.  All I had was my body and my brain, face down on a motel
bed while my father tried to get off in my ass so he could slip out without
injuring me.  And around the seven-minute mark it occurred to me that it
felt kind of good.  Maybe "not bad" would describe it better, not bad like
having a really satisfying bowel movement is not bad.

But that didn't explain why it felt better going in than coming out.

I tried not to make any noise, because Dad would interpret that as a signal
to stop.  So I alternately gritted my teeth and panted silently, listening
for any sound he might make.  At one point I found myself wondering if he
was enjoying it, and realized what a stupid question that was.  He had to
enjoy it if he wanted to finish.  That was kind of necessary.  If Dad could
feel so bad about this whole thing and keep a boner, he must not get
performance anxiety very often.

Not that I'd ever shown off for anyone.

Dad never went more than that single inch, in or out.  His hands held my
hips steady while he silently pumped as slow as he dared, and I crushed my
handfuls of bedspread as I felt my hole finally relax and stop resisting.

"Whoa," Dad gasped.  "It just got a lot easier.  What'd you do?"

"I think I stopped clenching," I replied, my voice embarrassingly bereft of
discomfort.  He dared to add more lube and try for another inch and I about
died in the good way, staring at the bed with my mouth wide open in a
soundless moan because I had never felt anything like it before.  All my
nerves sang out, and the part of my brain that wanted to be disgusted
cowered in a corner.  I couldn't ask him to go further in.  Not like this.

Dad maintained his conservative thrusting.  "Well, keep it that way.  It
was a bit painful before."  He sounded matter-of-fact, but carried an
undertone of restraint.  What I was doing was making him feel good.  And I
still didn't know how I felt about that.  I nodded and planted my knees,
not quite so anxious to get it over with.

About three minutes of steady thrusting later, he said, "Nate, don't feel
bad about touching yourself, okay?  Just being honest.  All the stuff back
there is connected, and it might not hurt as much if you balance it out."
I didn't dare tell him I was just fine.  I reached back to grab my dick,
which hadn't softened at all, and got about ten seconds before orgasm
threatened to overtake me.  I took my hand away quickly.

"Can't balance," I lied.

"Okay.  I'll just finish, then."  He placed his palms on my lower back and
held me still, those two infuriatingly pleasurable inches becoming all I
felt and all I wanted in that moment.  I knew that, as soon as we got home
from this trip, I would be looking for something to stick up my ass to
replicate the sensation.  What had started as excruciating pain had ended
up nirvana.  My body was set on edge, and even the pattern on the bedspread
felt somehow more there.

"Dad?"

"Yeah?"

I waited so I could carefully form the words in my head.  "If it makes it
faster, just do whatever.  I'll be okay."  He stopped, and for a moment I
thought he was trembling but realized it was just his shaft twitching
inside me.  I turned my head to look back as best I could, and his face
told it all: he was glad to have gotten permission, but felt horrible about
what he'd been permitted to do.  His eyes met mine, the flesh under his
chin bunched in little folds, his lips a flat, thin line.  "I'm okay."

"Anything hurts, you say so."

"Yeah."  And I turned away.  I couldn't bear to see his face so distorted.
This wasn't the Dad from Philmont, or even from earlier today.  This was a
man conflicted.

"Yeah.  Okay," he breathed, as if working himself up to it, but staying
within the borders he'd defined before.  Two inches in, two inches out.
And a few minutes later, he went in just a little further and we both made
tiny noises that each of us likely heard.  I was glad he didn't keep asking
if I was okay, because I would've kept saying I was.  Now it was three
inches, now it was two again, but one inch further in than before.  And he
wasn't so reserved in his motions.

We rocked together as one, slowly, letting the momentum do what it would.
Dad would go so far and it would hit a point and then we'd move, and it
would do the same thing on the way back.  It was nice for a while but I
could tell he wasn't getting anywhere and we could be like this until the
sun rose.  So on one back-thrust I dug my knees into the bed and stayed
there.  He wasn't expecting it, and he sank in to the hilt, only stopping
when his pubic hair touched my cheeks and his balls grazed mine.

This time a team of wild horses couldn't stop the moan that escaped my
mouth, or the groan that escaped his.  He didn't say anything, because he
knew I was okay, or he no longer cared.  His nails dug into my skin and
stung.  My prostate made its presence known for the second time that night,
now in a much different way.

He began again by pulling out almost the full length of his dick, maybe
seven inches, as slowly as he dared, until the crown bumped up against my
ring and the familiar pain flared again, though not nearly as bad as
before.  And back down all the way, where he shuddered and took me with
him, side to side.

"Sorry."  I didn't bother after that.  Dad didn't speed up much, just kept
up the slow assault while I sat there with the ever-increasing reality of
who we were and what we were doing.  How many laws we were breaking.  How
lucky we were, though that was up for debate.  It all came back to, I felt
great and Dad was getting there and we could worry about what life would be
like after this, after this.  He started doing longer thrusts, each time
bumping against my ring, afraid to hurt me, and going back down, each time
the soft skin of his sac against mine.

It electrified me.  The potential power, the dominance, the connection.  My
head swirled and I felt high even though I'd never done drugs in my life
except that one time when I stole a beer on the Fourth of July, and that
was O'Douls.  I was sure I was making all of these feelings up and as soon
as we were done all Dad would want to do would be to put it behind us and
never speak of it again.  But for now, I had this.

So I took it, clenching around him as he pulled away.  His gasp was music
to my ears.  He went back in and I did the same thing.  And he gave in and
let me.

And then he popped out.  I must have stopped clamping down as he was
withdrawing, expecting me to hold on.  And I felt no pain, but I was empty.
I spasmed around nothing, robbed.  Dad panted, his hips still going, his
tip prodding.  Now that we'd done what we'd set out to do, the line in the
sand was big and red again.  If he went back in he'd be sending a message.
A lot of messages.  He flexed his dick, up and down my slick crack, barely
any effort away from finishing.

"Nate."

"I don't care."  I said it with the blasé down-up-down of a child who
really did care but who didn't want to show it.

"Nate..."  His resolve all but gone, I did the first thing that came to my
mind.  I reached back between my legs, felt around for his scrotum, grabbed
it and tugged.  He came easily, spreading me wide and bottoming out with a
force that pushed me off the one elbow still propping me up.  My fingers
curled up around his balls, holding him to me, pressing them into mine.

"Go."  My right hand searched for my dick, found it and began a lewd
belly-slapping stroke.  If that didn't erase some of his embarrassment,
nothing would.  But he pulled his hips back and up, repeated it, and kept
it up.

Less than a minute later he announced, "Hold on," because he couldn't say
the actual words, and I did hold on.  He never pounded, never sped up, but
his short one-inch thrusts became erratic and I could tell he was stopping
himself from going harder.  After a few short strangled gasps, he planted
himself deep and I held him there by the balls.  He swelled over and over,
and though I couldn't feel the shots themselves I sure felt them going
through him.  As his balls lurched against my fingers, the reality of it
all washed over me and I humped my load out onto the bed, grunting and
vibrating with the tingle.

Dad waited for me to stop writhing before removing himself with a wet
schlock.  No pain at all, just a wonderful slickness and then the emptiness
that made my hole wink with nostalgia.  I felt good, and tired, and
satisfied in a much deeper way than I had known possible.  I wanted to stay
in that position forever, but when Dad went to the bathroom to grab the
towel I rolled over and stood up to wait for him.

He came out already having cleaned up.  He was mostly soft already but had
a nice plumpness to him, and when I saw the shape of his head I marveled
that I had been able to take it.  His forehead still shone with sweat.  And
he wouldn't look at me.

But he wasn't mad.

"Before you ask, no, I'm not talking about this.  Not tonight.  I'm...I'm
too tired."  His words were clipped but honest, and indicated we'd be
talking about it at some point.  I knew better than to push him.

I ran the towel up and down my abused crack, and it came away clean.
Another miracle.  "Okay.  You can have the air-conditioner side."  We
always fought over that when on trips.  I figured it was small consolation
for what was going on inside his head.  "What?"  He was just gawping at me,
in his pajama pants.  Then he rounded the corner of the bed and enveloped
me in his arms, his package mashed against my belly.  My dick didn't have
enough energy to move anymore.

He didn't say anything, but the hug said it all: we'd be okay.  We'd work
through this and we'd be okay.  Truth was, I didn't feel all that bad about
it.  I wasn't bleeding, and we both got off.  But I knew adults looked at
things differently, and did a lot more thinking about them.  So I couldn't
assume.

"Put your undies on and let's get to bed," he said after letting me go.  He
still wouldn't look at me.  "I don't care about the schedule.  Eight hours
and then we're up.  Deal?"

"Deal," I said, smiling a little.  At least Dad still had his sense of
humor.  I pulled on a clean pair and settled onto the cheap mattress under
the cheap covers, hewing to the far side in case he wanted some distance.
He didn't seem to care, but it was the thought that counted.

I don't remember which one of us fell asleep first, but it didn't take long
at all.