This story is a fantasy. It did not happen and it does not suggest that anyone do the things described in this story. Once again, it is a fantasy. Please don't copy this story or post it elsewhere without my permission. This story will describe sexual acts between males, some of whom will be of different generations. If you might be offended by this or if it's illegal for you to read this, then please don't read it. If you would like to write to me about my story, my address is ghbfna11 @gmail.com. Also, like half the other writers on the Internet, I have a weblog that I would like you to read at Gay Humanist Bytes Fascist; News At 11. I hope you like it and I hope you enjoy the story!
"Happy Birthday! You're a daddy!"
Matthew Cameron rolled his eyes at his friend Steve Hirsch as the cocktail boy set three Flaming Armadillos down on the table before them. Jason Linley grinned.
"What a way to celebrate your twenty-ninth birthday! Playtime's over, dude!"
Matt shook his head.
"Let's not get carried away here. Remember, he's coming to live with me because his mother died."
"God rot her evil soul," Steve added.
"Here, here!" Jason added as he held up the shot glass. He then declared, "To Mattie becoming an adult!"
"To Mattie becoming an adult!" Steve mimicked. Matt sighed and reluctantly lifted his shot glass.
"To Mattie becoming an adult," he replied with something less than enthusiasm.
Several other men at nearby tables and booths in the gay bar began to sing "Happy Birthday" over "Love Shack" booming from the dance floor. The cocktail boy leaned over in his short cut-offs and half t-shirt and planted a drippy kiss on Matt's mouth, prevented from inserting his tongue only when Matt pulled back and declared, "Whoa, Nelly!" Cocktail Boy grinned and pranced away after pinching Matt's cheek.
Steve and Jason slammed down the shot glasses and chuckled, but Steve's grin gradually faded as he watched his friend faking his joviality.
"What's the matter? You don't look like you're too thrilled about the situation."
Matt shrugged and looked down at the table, brushing his thick, strawberry blond hair from his blue eyes.
"It's just all so sudden. I'm worried I'm not up to it."
His friends nodded in understanding as he continued.
"I mean, if it had been cancer, I'd have had time to prepare. But, a car wreck. And, then, that bastard step-father just calling up and saying 'Take him, I don't want him.' The poor little guy just loses his mother. His step-father doesn't want him. And, now he gets thrown in with his faggot father who, let's face it, is not the most mature guy around. I just don't know how all this is going to affect him. And, I don't know if I can be a decent father. I mean, yeah I've got a great job, but I party every night and I... I just don't know if I can do what he needs me to do."
Steve smiled sympathetically and placed a hand on Matt's wrist.
"Right now, I don't think you need to worry about it. All you need to do tonight is be thankful your son is coming to live with you, celebrate your twenty-ninth birthday, and go over to the hot blond guy you've been eying since we sat down, take him to the back room, and get fucked really hard."
Matt blushed and ran his fingers through his hair, a nervous habit of his whenever he was embarrassed. He grinned at Steve and glanced back at the blond, who stared back rather blatantly at him and raised an eyebrow.
"Well?” Steve asked. "What are you waiting for?"
Matt sighed and looked about the bar, at the t-shirted body builders and hustlers playing at the pool tables to their right, at the snobby preps in their Polo oxfords staring down their noses with disdain and disguised lust at the body-builders and hustlers, and at the twinks on the dance floor behind them oblivious of everything except the beat of the music and how pretty they looked. Then he glanced back at the hot blond in the back.
"I've never seen him in here before," Matt commented as he looked up and down the well-filled khakis. The sun-bleached hair, unusual for a northern city in October, was thick and long, sweeping from the part on the right down across his forehead and just touching the collar of the denim shirt. He looked like he had stepped out of a Gap ad, even though he was probably in his mid-thirties.
"He's a bit old for you, isn't he?" Jason asked. "Don't you normally go for twinks and frat boys?"
Matt's eyes were locked on the blonde’s as he replied, "Yeah, but I think I need a Daddy tonight before I become one tomorrow!"
Steve and Jason both laughed as Matt stood and made his way to the back.
He could feel his cock growing in his khakis as he approached and the guy's smile was like gasoline on a fire to him. Between his nervousness and the several drinks that had been bought for him, Matt was ready for the hunk to take him into the back room, throw him down on a table, and fuck his lights out. But, first, he had to surrender with some dignity.
He had interviewed politicians and business leaders, movie stars and rock stars, and even a man who had walked on the moon. But, never had he felt as nervous or intimidated as he did standing in the airport watching through the giant window as his son's plane approached the gate. His stomach ached and his chest was tight. His ass was still sore from the fuck in the back room the night before. Scott had taken full advantage of his need, but before they could exchange phone numbers, he had disappeared into the dark of the room. It was just as well, Matt told himself. He had a much bigger challenge facing him now and getting fucked in the back room of "Boys Night Out" was no longer going to be an option.
It had been years since he had seen Tim. The divorce agreement had stipulated that he have no contact with his son until after the boy's eighteenth birthday and other than the occasional photograph in the mail and the pain in his heart as he watched other father's playing catch in the park with their sons, Tim had been completely absent from his life. Now, in just a matter of minutes, that was to dramatically change.
The plane pulled up to the jet way and stopped. Matt watched the crowd gathered at the gate move forward in anticipation of the passengers disembarking. He waited on the periphery, his hands nervously jammed into the pockets of his khaki's. He was thankful for his tweed sport coat as he was certain he was sweating like a pig in his blue oxford shirt. He shook his head in wonder at himself as the first passengers appeared in the doorway; he felt as if he were a fifteen year-old on his first date.
That morning, he had spent half an hour deciding what to wear. He naturally looked younger than his age and he couldn't decide whether it would make a better impression on the boy if he looked like he normally did, a college freshman, or if he should go for the "Daddy look." In interviews, he normally disarmed his subjects by giving them the appearance of a young amateur and then shocking them with stinging, biting questions that caught them off guard. That was probably not the approached to take, he had decided, with a ten year-old boy meeting his father for the first time. In the end, he had compromised. The khakis with blue canvas sneakers would give a youthful, less intimidating appearance; and leaving the tie at home would help. However, the tweed jacket would show good taste and maturity. When he climbed into his '89 Z, however, he realized it was all crap. Kids didn't care about that sort of thing with adults. Clothes only mattered when it came to other kids. They had x-ray vision when it came to veneers. Tim would have formed his opinion and judgment of him within five minutes and it wouldn't matter what he was wearing.
Tim Cameron gazed out the window of the 737 as it descended toward the airport. They were passing over the suburbs, flying by housing tracts, shopping malls, and freeways as they dropped lower and lower. He held his hands in his lap, nervous not because of the landing, but because he was about to meet his father for the first time in his memory. He sighed and clenched his hands as he heard the rumble and whine of the flaps lowering.
"Don't worry," said the businessman beside him reassuringly. "It's supposed to do that."
Tim smiled and nodded absent-mindedly before looking back out the window. The engines throttled down and he glanced at his khaki pants. Would his dad like the way he was dressed? He knew nothing about his father except that his mother had divorced him, his step-father hated him, and he was a writer. Tim was a quiet, intellectual boy. Perhaps, his father would like a quiet, intellectual son since he was a writer. His step-father certainly hadn't liked him. Loud and gregarious, Jack loved Monday Night Football, drank beer with the guys, and hated books. After a year, he had given up on being close to Tim and, when his mother twice became pregnant, focused all his attention on Tim's two half-siblings. His real father had to be different. If he was a writer, he might like a quiet intellectual for a son.
Tim had chosen his clothes carefully the night before. Khaki slacks and a blue oxford shirt. That would look formal and respectful, but his blue canvas deck shoes would show he was still a kid and not trying to be pretentious. Then, he would top it off with the tweed sport jacket his mother had given him for his birthday, to show his father how important the occasion was to him. Now, he worried that it was all wrong. What if he made the wrong impression on his father right off, as he had with his step-father? What if they didn't get along any better than he had with Jack? And, what if his father called him "a little fairy" the way Jack had?
Tim bit his lower lip and felt his eyes start to burn. No! He couldn't cry! Not before he met his father. He took a deep breath as he heard the landing gear drop. The ground was rushing by faster and faster and suddenly, they passed over the fence of the airport. The landing lights flew past beneath them and then the end of the runway. In seconds, he felt the gear touchdown and then the nose drop. Immediately, the engines reversed and roared and he was pushed forward in his seat for a moment until the plane slowed down.
As they taxied toward the terminal, he pulled his backpack out from under his seat and clutched it anxiously. The man next to him patted his arm.
"You look more scared now than you did before we landed," he said with a smile. Tim shrugged and tried to look calm.
"I'm OK. I'm... going to meet my dad for the first time."
"Oh," the man replied. "I see. Well, I wouldn't worry about it too much. Dads have special feelings for their sons and I'm sure your's will be pretty proud of such a fine-looking young man as you."
Tim finally smiled and said, "Thanks," as he blushed and looked toward the window.
The plane seemed to take forever to reach the gate. Nervously, he watched as they approached the giant window. How would he recognize his father? His mother had always said he was the "spitting image" of his father, (and she hadn't always meant it as a compliment, he knew). He looked for a reddish-blond man in the window, but the reflections in the glass seemed to block his view. When the plane came to a stop and the other passengers began to pull their carry-ons down from the rack above and push their way up the aisle, Tim waited impatiently, clutching his backpack and watching. The businessman grinned at him and said, "Patience. He'll be there."
When an opening appeared, the man stood up and paused to give Tim a chance to get up as well. He slung the backpack over his shoulder and moved toward the front of the plane, nodding automatically to the flight attendants as he entered the walkway. It angled off at the end and he couldn't see into the terminal as he walked, unsure whether he wanted to hurry or if he was afraid.
He followed the crowd through the bend in the walkway and suddenly found himself in the cavernous gate, pushed along a cordoned-off pathway into the concourse.
He reached the end of the rope and stood to the side of the crowd, desperately searching for someone who might be his father. His stomach was so tight he thought he was going to throw up.
And, then, he saw him. Standing on the edge of the crowd, looking right at him, a look of fear and hope on his face. He almost didn't look old enough, but Tim was certain. Tall and slender, his strawberry-blond hair sweeping down over his forehead and touching his collar, he seemed unable to move; but, then, neither could Tim. They both stared at each other for a long moment until, at the same time, they both tentatively began to step forward.
When they were just a few feet from each other, the man swallowed, visibly scared, and said, in a shaking voice, "Tim?"
Slowly, smiles formed on both their faces and then they began to laugh, holding their arms out in recognition that they had mysteriously dressed identically.
"This is amazing," his father said.
"This is cool!" Tim replied.
And, suddenly, they were embracing, his dad's arms around him, and Tim’s face resting against the man's chest. Tim's arms held his father tightly and all the fears he had felt dissolved.
He felt a hand pat his shoulder and he looked up, still embracing his father, still embraced by his father. He saw the man who had sat next to him on the plane.
"See? I told you it'd be OK!"
The man winked and walked on as Tim grinned.
Yes. It was OK.