Date: Mon, 3 May 2010 13:54:34 +1030 From: Marcus McNally Subject: Dad Gives Me A Helping Hand - 4 This story contains sexual situations between a father and his teenage son. If material of this nature offends you then you should not read this story. If you are under 18 years of age you are probably not legally allowed to read this story. This story is purely a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons living or dead, or to events that may have occurred, is purely coincidental. The author claims all copyrights in this story and no duplication or publication of this story is allowed (except by the web sites to which it has been posted) without the consent of the author. If you haven't already done so, you should probably read the first three chapters before embarking on this installment. ************* Christmas was a happy time in the home I shared with teenage son. It `twas the season, and Matt was certainly jolly. Relieved of the pressure of facing another year of struggle in his final school year, Matt took to studying the art of cooking with gusto. When he wasn't poring over cookbooks and tomes devoted to culinary craftsmanship, he was working up a sweat in the kitchen, putting his skills to the test and using me as his official taster. If it frustrated him that my own lack of cooking skills has me declaring each of his magnificent dishes a triumph, he gracious tempered that frustration to the occasional roll of his eyes. Truth was, I really couldn't tell a Bouillabaisse from a bowling ball. My credit card took a beating as we cruised the gourmet food stores for exotic ingredients, most of which had names I couldn't pronounce, but hang the expense when it was giving Matt such pleasure. Many times he'd asked me to test him on the definitions of cooking terms and he was almost always on the money. For fun, he'd turn the tables and quiz me and I loved to watch him fall around the floor laughing at my clearly contrived attempts. Aspic, he assured me, was a clear jelly made from stock and not a ski resort in Colorado. Basmati was not the President of the Philippines but a long-grain Indian rice, and no, Espagnole was not the official language of Spain but rather, a brown sauce made with brown stock. Matt guffawed as I explained that Mirepoix were the indigenous people of North America; who'd have thought they were sweated chopped aromatic vegetables? And he laughed until tears ran down his face when I assured him that I did know that a Chorizo was a fat, juicy sausage and that I'd seen one that very morning swinging between my son's legs when he stepped out of the shower. The Christmas/New Year period presented ample opportunity for Matt to test his recipes on others as a passing parade of family and friends dropped by for meals and to exchange gifts. My sisters had always adored their only nephew and they clucked and cooed over his skills at the stove, telling me repeatedly how lucky I was, and how lucky the girl who finally snared him would be. During these frequent conversations, Matt's eyes would lock with mine and he'd grin and wink at me. When we weren't hosting guests, I often just sat at the kitchen bench watching my boy work his magic, juggling pots and pans. I'd sit with a glass of wine and simply enjoy the concentration on his face as he tried to perfect a sauce, his furrowed brow relaxing when his ingredients all did what they were supposed to do. His face would light up in triumph and he'd hold a spoon out for me to taste his new creation. After one of his gourmet dinners just before new year, we sat sipping wine at the table and we were laughing at how my sisters were always banging on about how lucky Matt's future wife would be, not only with her own personal chef but with a big delicious stud as well. "So mate, speaking of future wives, you haven't put yourself `back on the market' since the accident," I said. "Isn't it time you got out there and let the girls know Matt's back?". Matt laughed, and tried to dismiss any further discussion with a comment about how he needed to apply himself to his cooking and try to get an apprenticeship, to justify my faith in him. "Mate, man cannot live by bread alone," I replied. "Man needs pussy!". Again Matt laughed but responded with only a trite response about "not enough time". A couple more questions from me turned our casual chat into a fairly deep discussion. I knew Matt had girlfriends from the age of 15 and I knew that he was sexually active from at least 16; I suspected that when he and a girl disappeared into his room and closed the door they weren't reading poetry, and the occasional used condom left on his bedside table proved me right. And yes, he had been doing the deed with Olivia, the pretty blonde girl from school he'd been seeing casually until his accident. "She was really into it," Matt confessed. "Always hot to trot. She was always getting me to talk dirty to her while we were fucking and she'd go off like a rocket". "So," I asked, an eyebrow raised, "how come she's not back on your radar?" "I dunno," Matt said. "I never had much trouble getting laid, but I've always felt there was .. um ... kinda something missing. I can't really explain it. Either like there should be something more, or maybe I was looking for something else." I thought about what he'd said for a moment. "Mate, the only `something else' is guys. Unless of course you're talking about goats. You're not turned on by screwing goats are you??" Matt grinned and said, "Nah, goats don't do it for me. Not so sure about guys ..." I was momentarily surprised, only because Matt was such a great looking kid and I was aware of how popular he was with the opposite sex. But I also know we don't choose our sexuality and because I love Matt unconditionally and my greatest wish is for him to be happy, I would automatically embraces any choice he made in life. I took this new declaration in my stride. "So, if you've ruled goats out you've obviously tried one. Ever tried a guy?" Matt looked up me, flicked his fringe out of his sparkling eyes, and said "Nah, not really ..." "What does `not really' mean, mate?" "Well, Byron, Jack and me had a circle jerk once or twice, and a couple of times when Byron was here on his own we'd watch some internet porn and jack off together, but we never did anything else. I've never had sex with a guy if that's what you're asking." "Jacking off with a mate is a normal teenage boy thing, Matt," I said. "We've all done that. Even me. That doesn't automatically mean you're gay." "I know Dad," he replied. "It's not the jacking off that I'm talking about. I just feel, well ... it's kinda hard to explain. I just feel attracted to guys. Like, if I'm watching a movie and there's a nude scene with a girl and a guy skinny-dipping, I find myself getting turned on watching the guy's ass, not the girl's. "That night we watched 9 Songs the tent in my sweat pants was caused by the guy, not the girl. I was so turned on by the look on the guy's face as his girlfriend sucked his dick." I thought back to that night, before Matt's bandages were removed, when we watched that DVD; he was right, those sex scenes were incredibly hot. "All guys – straight or gay – get turned on watching other guys have sex, mate," I said. "The reason there's always a cum shot in porn movies is for the male viewers. Guys get off on watching another guy shoot his load. Guys are competitive and they like to compare. That's why guys always check out other guys in the shower, or when they're taking a piss. They just want to know if their cock's as big, or bigger. And with porn, they want to know how their own cum shot compares. It doesn't mean anything" Matt reached over and rested his hand on my arm. "I know all that Dad," Matt said. "You don't have to try and normalize my reactions. The difference is, when I watched the guy's face all contorted in 9 Songs I was wishing it was me giving him that much pleasure. And that's what caused the dance in my pants." We looked at each other for a few moments and it was my turn to grin. "So, beating off with Jack and Byron? That's the only man-on-man experience you've had?" I asked. "Yep," Matt grinned back. "Although I did have some old guy jerk me off a few times!" It was only when he started to laugh that I realized he was talking about me. "You're right, kiddo," I said, as I ran my fingers through his hair trying to get that fringe out of his eyes. "But that was an act of mercy, not sex!" Matt laughed again. "Really Dad?", he asked. "Well tomorrow morning I'm going down to the Sisters Of Mercy convent and I'll ask for that same act of mercy from one of the nuns. And I'll see you an hour later when you turn up with the bail money." I played the `corny' card one last time, warning Matt he shouldn't be fantasizing about nuns because he might get into the habit, and then we called it a night. I helped Matt clean up the dinner plates and stack the dishwasher and then, as he turned to go upstairs, he put his arms around me and gave me a hug. "Thanks Dad," he said as he kissed my cheek. "For everything. I love you" "I love you too, Matt," I said. "More than anything in the world." I kissed him back, turned him around and swatted his ass as he walked through the lounge. "Careful old man, in my world that's foreplay," he joked as he disappeared up their staircase. I climbed into bed and lay awake for a while, mulling over the conversation we'd had, painfully aware that beneath the covers, my cock was responding to the conversation too, and was now begging for attention. I slipped my hand down over my chest and stomach and ran my fingers through my pubes, before encircling my aching shaft and feeling a deep throb of pleasure as my hand slowly started to pump. Often when I'm settled in for a hot session of self love, my mind conjures up images of Mira Sorvino writhing naked in `American Beauty' to get my vas deferens all nice and bothered. Or Chloe Sevigny working pure magic with her mouth on Vincent Gallo in `The Brown Bunny'. But this night, as I close my eyes and caress my cock, my mind is shifting to mental images of Matt, my 17-year-old son, enjoy his first pre-accident jack off in the shower. One part of my brain is telling me I should try to focus on Mira or Chloe, while another part keeps fast-forwarding those images of Matt groaning with primal pleasure as he busted his nut all over the glass shower screen, his powerful spurts causing a series of splats before the white ribbons dripped down the glass to the floor of the shower. And that's when I start to feel it, that glorious sensation I know and love so much. My heart rate increases as my body surrenders to a slow orgasmic build-up. My cock, now as hard as granite, starts to pound of its own accord and deep in my balls the tell-tale signs begin. Try as I might to delay it and draw out the pleasure, I know I'm powerless to stop it. Involuntarily my jaw clenches, my laboured breathing becomes a pant and my hand becomes slick as precum leaks from the eye of my cock in a steady stream. I throw back the covers and, as if in slow motion, I feel the exquisite sensation of the first volley of cum travelling through my urethra. I feel light-headed as the first spurt flies out of my cock over my shoulder and spatters against the bed head. A moment later, another thick stream of white juice shoots out, followed by another, and another, and another. I feel dazed but sated, and after soaking up the fantastic post-orgasmic sensation in my ball sac, I reach out, grab a handkerchief from my side table and begin the mop-up operation. I drop the sodden handkerchief back on the side table, crawl back under the covers and surrender myself to blissful sleep. ********** I was still mostly asleep the following morning when my mind registered a creaking sound. Lying in the dark, I tried to focus on what was going on when I heard light footsteps padding across my bedroom floor. A few moments later the room filled with light as Matt pulled back the curtains. "I made you some coffee, Dad," he said as my head retreated under the doona in an attempt to escape the blinding sunlight. "Why are you up so early, and why are you waking me?", I mumbled. "I'm taking my CV around to some restaurants today," Matt chirpily responded. "I had to get up early and I thought you might want coffee. Besides, you've gotta go to work, too." I remembered that this was his first day of cold-calling on restaurants in the hope that somebody would give him a job and set him on the career path he wanted so badly. I threw the covers off my head and propped myself up on two pillows. "Thanks mate," I said, as I checked him out. Freshly dry-cleaned black pants and a simple black shirt. Clean hair, clean teeth and that dazzling smile. How could any restaurant owner refuse this boy? "You all pumped and ready to sell yourself?" I asked. "Well, I'm gonna give it my best shot," he said. As I drank my coffee, he chatted breezily about the way he'd make his approach and I reassured him that he was on the right track. When I finished my coffee Matt was still sitting on the end of my bed. I glanced at the clock and threw back the covers. Jumping out of bed, I said "I've gotta grab a shower, mate". I registered the fact that Matt's eyes immediately fell to my cock and balls and I momentarily wondered whether he'd realize that the matted hair on my stomach and chest was the result of a cum shower. "OK Dad," he said. "I'm gonna make a move. I'll see you when you get home tonight. Thanks again." He stood and gave me a hug and seemed completely unselfconscious that his father's naked body was pressing against him. I kissed him on the top of his head and ruffled his hair as I walked into my en suite, and as I opened the shower door I heard him mumble "fuck, don't mess with the hair!". I enjoyed a long, hot shower as my body relaxed and began recharging for the challenging work day ahead. I dried myself, shaved and dressed. I grabbed my car keys and was about to head to work when I suddenly realized I wasn't wearing my watch. I walked back into my bedroom to retrieve it from my bedside table, and it was only then that I noticed my cum-soaked handkerchief had disappeared. *********** For the next few weeks Matt pounded the pavement every day, and from the sounds of it, pounded his prick every night. Or, as "my son the chef" would call it, his blue-veined junket pumper. The frustration he felt at not being able to convince any restaurants to take him on as an apprentice was being resolved each night between his fist and his cock. And, after a few nights of hearing him grunting and groaning his way through what sounded like intensely satisfying fist fucks, I found myself lying in bed in the still of the night, listening intently for the slight squeaking of his mattress and the whimpers that invariably followed. I found myself encircling my own cock and pumping away to the erotic sounds of a teenager giving himself over to the pure pleasure that was building in his balls and spreading throughout his sweating body. The sound I loved best was the low, throaty growl that signaled the moments leading up to the first exquisite squirt of cum, and most nights, his orgasmic grunts triggered my own messy ejaculation. I realized at the weekend, when I cleaned his room, that Matt's climaxes were being caught in my handkerchief. I found it that first Saturday morning, scrunched up under his mattress, a sodden mass holding my huge load and at least half a dozen of his own copious emissions. I picked it up and carried it with an armload of sheets, pillow slips and dirty clothes to the laundry and before dropping it in the machine I held the handkerchief to my face and inhaled the intoxicating aroma of my teenage son's seed. He returned home that afternoon after kicking the ball with a few of his mates and within a matter of minutes, he called out from his room. "Did you clean my room Dad?". "No, mate," I called back. "The room actually cleaned itself. It was fucking amazing. I just stood back and watched while the windows opened themselves, the towels replaced themselves and the bed changed its own sheets." I heard a chuckle, followed by, "Um, did you take my handkerchief?" "No Matt, I didn't," I replied. "I just opened your door and the handkerchief ran out and down the stairs to the kitchen, looking for an egg to fertilise. Looks like you've been crashing the yoghurt truck a bit lately, mate." Another chuckle. "You oughta talk, old man," he called out. "Before I crashed the yoghurt truck, I think someone else in this house used it after a little hand-to-gland combat!". For the first two or three weeks, Matt's mood was always up and he was his usual wise-cracking happy self. He'd never been shy about bring naked around me, but lately he'd taken to wandering downstairs bare ass in the mornings, not at all self-conscious about his morning wood. He'd chat to me while waiting for the kettle to boil, absent-mindedly scratching his low hanging nuts as he told me his plans for the day. And at night after another of his mind-blowing dinners, he'd change into loose-fitting gym shirts and a tee and lie spread out on the couch with one leg up as we watched TV. Any time I turned to him to speak, I saw two sparkling eyes looking at me, and lower down, two plump testicles resting lazily in their sac. Matt had always been a tactile boy but he'd taken to touching me a lot more in recent weeks, often asking for or offering a hug for no reason other that to silently say thanks for helping him pursue his dream of being a chef. It was only after that third week that I noticed his cheerful façade was beginning to disintegrate. He'd try to put on a happy face each evening when he returned from a new round of knock-backs, and we still had the same light-hearted exchanges ... "How did it go, mate?" I'd ask. "Oh you know," he'd reply. "Everybody wants me. What can I say? There's a pistol duel at dawn between the guy from Jacques Raymond and the guy from the Il Forno. Whoever's left standing wins my hand around their wooden spoon". We'd laugh and the evening would go on as normal but I sensed that he was feeling low and I casually mentioned it one night while I was still a little wired from the sugar high of Matt's honeycomb mousse. I sat next to him on the couch as he flicked through the channels. "Matt, don't let this get you down mate. Something's gonna come along. Sooner or later someone will see your promise and you'll be on your way." He turned sideways, his back against my arm and his head on my shoulder. "I know Dad, but it can be pretty soul-destroying," he confided. "Most of the people I speak to don't wanna know, and the ones who do tell me that they're putting staff off rather than hiring. The nice guys offer me a job as a waiter and they kinda get pissed off when I decline. They reckon I should start at the bottom and work my way up, but I don't wanna wait tables. I know I can cook." I moved my arm and wrapped it around his chest. "I know you can cook too, mate," I said, as I gave him a squeeze. "You're a fucking great cook and whoever ends up with you in charge of their kitchen is gonna think they've won the lottery. But it takes time Matt. Just be patient". Matt squeezed my arm and said "I know Dad, but you let me finish my schooling early because of all my big fucking promises about landing an apprenticeship and here I am weeks later, can't even get fucking arrested." I squeezed him tighter and kissed the top of his head. "Mate," I said, "you've got nothing to prove to me. I want you to follow your dream, and know that I support you a hundred percent because I believe in you and I love you. I don't care if you end up flipping burgers in a caravan outside Flinders Street Station, as long as you're truly happy." "I love you too Dad," he replied softly. "You'll never know how much." He moved again, turned my face towards his and kissed me on the cheek, before stretching out of the couch full length, resting the side of his face in my lap. I wondered, as we watched the Late News, if he could feel my cock harden as I stroked his hair. ********** By the end of Matt's fourth week of drawing blanks on the job trail, I was beginning to think my throwaway comment about flipping burgers might have been an omen. He was almost resigned to taking a job washing dishes at the local Greek restaurant when, as so often happens, opportunity knocked when I least expected it. My job as creative director of a boutique but very successful advertising agency brought with it a lot of emphasis on schmoozing our clients and many times I found myself lunching with them at fine restaurants, more often than not making a mental note that my son's meals rivaled what was served up to me by some of the city's most renowned chefs. I was invited by the boss to join some of the company's elite clients for a casual cocktail party at the office on Friday night and, having promised Matt I'd be home for dinner, begged off because of a prior engagement. My boss's assurance that it was only a one hour commitment belied his unspoken expectation that I'd be there. I showed up a little after six and, with a glass of white wine in my hand, worked the room and shook all the right hands. I chatted about the money market with the director of the dog food conglomerate, exchanged dirty jokes with the marketing manager of the chain of hardware stores, and feigned sympathy as the inebriated public relations executive of the furniture empire poured out his marital woes. I was spared the intimate details of his wife's infidelities when my boss cut in and introduced me to Vincent Sacco, the owner of four popular up-market restaurants, two here in Melbourne and two in Sydney, who'd come on board as a client only recently. I wasn't actively involved with his account but I'd certainly been there to `talk the talk" when he signed the contract over launch. As he shook my hand he said, in his broken English, "you got the boy who wants to be the chef, yes?". I remarked on his good memory and told him, yes I had a son who wanted desperately to be a chef but that things weren't working out too well. It was a Catch-22, I explained; the restaurants who could afford apprentices wanted kids with a lot of professional kitchen experience, but none of them were in a position to give him that experience. "How good he is?" Vincent asked. "Vince, I think he's awesome for a kid who's only 17," I replied. "What he lacks in technique he makes up for in enthusiasm and willingness to learn. He's passionate about it and he's absolutely committed. I just wish he could land a break." Vince scratched his chin for a moment before saying "I have vacancy soon. One of my apprentices is taking year off to travel." I'm sure my surprise registered when I said "You'd consider Matt?". "Depends how good he is," Vince replied. "No promises. He would need to be very good. I am in Melbourne until Monday morning. I come to your house, he will cook me a meal. I will know if he is good." I immediately invited him for dinner on Saturday night. We shook hands and I made my exit, anxious to get home to Matt and share the news. When I told him, he punched the air before grabbing me around the neck and showering the top of my head with kisses. "You rock Dad!" he yellow before bouncing upstairs to plan his menu. On Saturday morning I wandered around behind him at the market, credit card in hand, as he ordered from his hand-written list. I had no idea what half of what he ordered actually was, but he certainly seemed to know what he needed. It was worth to couple of hundred bucks to see him so pumped. When we got home, he set about preparing the evening's meal, which he delighted in outlining for me. Entrée would be stuffed zucchini flower fritters with a tomato and anchovy sauce, followed by pan-fried barramundi fillet with boulangère potatoes and a red wine sauce and for dessert, a French crêpe with raspberry curd and lemon sorbet. I was about to ask him what the fuck a boulangère potato was I knew I'd get a 20-minute treatise on the history of the spud, so I kept my mouth shut. Matt spent the entire day in the kitchen preparing his meal, only venturing out to set the table. Vincent arrived precisely at 7pm and like clockwise, Matt served up a superb three course meal with just the right wines to accompany each dish. I sensed that by main course, Vincent was impressed. By the end of dessert, there was an offer on the table. The apprentice job was poorly paid, but it was Matt's if he wanted it, and could promise he would work hard. Barely able to contain his excitement Matt nodded his head and assured Vincent he would regret his decision. The deal sealed, Vincent said, "You are a very good cook. You will be good in my restaurant. You will learn much. And you will love Sydney." Hang on a moment. Sydney? Matt and I locked eyes. "Sydney?" Matt asked. "The job's in Sydney?". "Yes, yes," Vincent replied. "Is my best restaurant. Is this a problem?" Still holding my gaze, Matt assured him that Sydney wasn't a problem and, over coffee and a platter of imported cheese and homemade brioche, he committed to a 12 month trial, staring in a fortnight. Vincent finished his wine and coffee and thanked Matt for the meal before leaving in a cab. Matt and I cleaned up the kitchen and eventually Matt said "Fuck Dad, Sydney. What do you think?". "It's a bit late for what I think, mate," I laughed. "You're hired!" Matt walked over and embraced me. "Thanks Dad," he said quietly in my ear. "You're the fucking best. I couldn't do this without you." I returned his hug. "I love you, Matt. I'm gonna miss you being around but this is an opportunity that's been dropped in your lap and you've gotta take it. Go show `em what you can do." We finished the clean up and before disappearing upstairs, Matt hugged me again and kissed my cheek. Alone in my room I drifted off to sleep a little later to the unmistakable sound of a happy teenager whipping up some baby batter. *********** The next couple of weeks were spent getting Matt ready for his move to Sydney. He had his cases packed within the first dew days and online, we managed to find him some suitable `digs' in Sydney, a boarding house near Vincent's restaurants that was cheap but clean. I helped him fill in the employment forms that Vincent had emailed, set up internet banking for him and put together a public transport schedule for him to get around the harbour city. All too soon it was the Friday he was flying out, to settle in before starting his first shift on Monday. I was up early that morning doing last-minute checks to make sure everything was in place for his flight and preparing breakfast, when Matt wandered into the kitchen bare assed as usual, simultaneously yawning, scratching the top of his head with one hand and scratching his ball bag with the other. His morning wood was lazily pointing straight ahead of him. As I handed him a coffee, he reached out and hugged me, oblivious of the fact that his hard cock was nestled between my legs. "Dad," he said. "I don't know how to thank you. I can't wait to go but I don't wanna leave, either," I hugged him tight and said, "Mate, this is your moment. Go and knock their socks off. I'll always be here, only an hour away." The day got underway and before I knew it, I will standing in the departure lounge with Matt, whose eyes filled with tears when his final boarding call was announced. Not wanting to drag it out, I drew him into a tight hug and whispered "time to go Matt. I love you.". He seemed to choke on what he was about to say and I took the opportunity to detach from him, kiss him on the lips, and turn and walk away, not once looking back. *********** Thankfully, the weeks that followed were busy work-wise for me and the only time I really noticed the empty house was at night when I was alone in the kitchen, warming take-out instead of wallowing in the taste and aroma of Matt's gourmet offerings. I wasn't even able to wallow in the aroma of Matt's bedroom, with its unique combination of sweat, gym socks and semen. For his part, Matt was over the moon. His work schedule was punishing and he was tired most of the time, but elated nonetheless. The down side was that life at the guest house wasn't all it promised to be. Matt's fellow tenants were all party animals whose nocturnal habits were seriously impacting on his sleep time. Within a couple of weeks I'd jumped online and found him a small apartment literally around the corner from the restaurant. A one-bedroom studio, it was no palace, but it was somewhere he could call his own. Knowing that his measly salary wouldn't cover the rent, I pre-paid a 12 month lease for him and let him know by having a bottle of champagne and a key delivered to him at the boarding house. Again, I dismissed his gratitude, assuring him that I was making an investment in my old age; if I did the right thing I'd have a son who would cook soft foods for me when I was old and frail. We talked often on the phone and I realized that while work-wise, things were going well, Matt had no time for a social life. Being reliant on public transport hampered his ability to get around so I started looking around for a second hand car that could be 18th birthday present. That milestone rolled around pretty quickly and that weekend I paid for Matt to fly back home, for a party with his mates and some quality time with Dad! I met him at Melbourne airport driving the second-hand BMW I bought for him. Holding his luggage he looked at the car and then looked at me with a puzzled look on his face. I handed him the keys and said "Happy birthday, mate!" His expression was priceless. "Fuck Dad, you are just the fucking best," he gushed as he grabbed me in a hug and squeezed the living daylights out of me. "I don't know how I can ever repay you but I'm gonna make sure I do." Every three months he had a weekend off, and every three months I sent him an e-ticket for a return Sydney-Melbourne air ticket. And every third weekend, I found myself eagerly waiting for him to walk off the plane and envelop me in his arms. Every three weeks I noticed changes. He was 18 now and while he'd always been a young man to me for the past few years, he was physically changing. His body was no longer that of a teenager; he was a man. He had more facial hair, more body tone, more muscle and, as I noticed every time he wandered naked into the kitchen or the lounge room at home, his family jewels had become even more priceless. On one weekend visit, several months into his apprenticeship, we were lying on the beach in our Speedos soaking up the sun and, after shooting the shit about nothing in particular for an hour or so, I had a question. "So mate, how's the love life going in Sydney? Getting any?" He laughed and said "Like there's time. I've had a couple of dates, nothing worth writing home about." "So, nothing to celebrate in the `City Of Celebrations'?" "Well, I've celebrated the odd blowjob," he replied. "But they were just one-offs. That's not what I want. I want someone special where the sex actually means something. I keep meeting cute guys and pretty boys who are up for a blow because all they want is to lose their load. I don't want that." I held his stare and gently asked him, "Do you know what you do want, mate?" "I want more, Dad," he said. "I just want ... more. It's easy to get off in Sydney. Just log on, find a local gay chat room, get a bit hot and heavy with some dude, hook up a couple of hours later and get your dick sucked. I've done that. It's great to blow a load but, like I said to you about how I felt when I was fucking girls, there was just something missing. It's that connection. I need a connection. "I've met a few really cool guys and the blowjobs have been great, but they just don't want to connect. They're young and full of cum, like me, but they just wanna get rid of that cum in the first available ass and move on to the next hot piece of ass that passes by. "I know they wanna fuck me but I can't do that after knowing them for 24 hours, so I never hear from them again." Although sex was not a taboo subject between us, Matt had not been this frank with me before and I guess I needed him to spell out what he was saying. "So do I take it from what you're saying that if Mister Right wandered along right now, within 48 hours you'd be offering up your hot ass as a sacrifice?" Matt chuckled and said, "Only if it felt right, old man. This ain't no cheap meat you're looking at. My ass will go to he who truly deserves it, and that chosen one will hit the jackpot!" Again, he locked eyes with me and we started to laugh. Here I was, a father learning for sure that his cherished teenage son wanted to be fucked in the ass, and all I wanted to do was grab his gorgeous head and plant a dirty wet kiss on his plump and perfect lips. What the fuck?? Within a matter of weeks, Matt's 12 month trial was drawing to an end and he'd know whether he was employable as a trainee chef. Unbeknownst to Matt, Vincent had kept me up to date with his progress and our conversations were always reassuring. Matt would make a fine chef one day, Vincent said, as long as he was focused. He was a hard worker and fun to be around and the restaurant staff all liked him. Things were looking good. Vincent confided that one of the restaurant's young waitresses had her sights set on Matt, but he didn't appear to be interested. "He's all work, no play," Vince said. "Is good he is dedicated but he needs to get laid." We agreed and we laughed, Vincent seemingly oblivious to the possibility that waitress pussy wasn't on Matt's menu. On the last Friday of the last month of Matt's trial period – just a few days before my birthday – Vincent rang to let me know that Matt's trial was over and that he'd passed with flying colours. Matt would be offered a full-time apprentice chef position with one of the restaurants and would have a month off before starting work in his new role. I was ecstatic and very proud. I made Vincent promise that when he broke the news to Matt, he wouldn't let on that I knew, and thanked him profusely for all that he'd done. Two nights later and almost incomprehensible Matt rang to tell me his news. I was caught up in his excitement but still managed to fake the appropriate surprise and yelled my congratulations down the line. His exhilaration was contagious and, with a few celebratory drinks under his belt, he was being a bit soppy, telling me he could never have done it without my help, how grateful he was for always supporting him and believing him, and made special mention of the fact that I was always "covering his ass". I replied, "I haven't been `covering your ass' mate, I've been investing in your happiness." He told me once again how much he loved me, and as he was about to hang up I heard him, quite bemusedly, say "covering my ass, eh?". Matt was due to fly out of Sydney on Friday afternoon, getting him home to Melbourne for my birthday on Saturday. We had much to celebrate. On the Wednesday before he left, he rang to let me know that his Byron, his mate from school in Melbourne, had offered his family's holiday home to him for the upcoming week, while they were away in Bali. Matt would now drive to Melbourne on Thursday and head straight to his loaned Portsea mansion, where I'd meet him on Saturday. "It's a fucking awesome place Dad," Matt enthused. "It's got views over the ocean from nearly every room and open fires and a private beach and everything. We'll have a blast. "I wanna show off some new recipes I've learnt so I'm gonna cook you a rockin' birthday dinner! And I've got something I want to give you." "You don't have to give me anything Matt," I said. "A birthday dinner and a weekend away is more than enough. I'm just looking forward to seeing you." I could almost hear Matt smile down the phone. "You've given me so much the past year Dad. I'll never be able to repay you financially but I can give you something special to show how much you mean to me." Little did I realize that within 72 hours, our close father/son relationship was going to get a whole lot closer ... * * * * * * Fifth and final chapter coming soon! Please feel free to email me your comments. marcusis32@live.com.au