By Lucas Boulderguard
I stumbled down the narrow concrete steps to the basement, staggered blindly past the furnace and water heater, and pressed my hands against the cold steel door of Dad's Den. It groaned as I shoved my shoulder against it and it budged open. I poked my head inside and breathed in the scent of Old Spice and stale cigarettes.
“Dad...” Absent from us for fifteen years and Mom still couldn't bring herself to use the word 'dead'. She always spoke of him as if he were away on a long business trip. And perhaps for that reason, I spent most of my life waiting for him to come through the front door, set his briefcase down, and sweep me up in his arms. He never did.
The steel clanked behind me as I closed the world out and stood in the darkness with the memory of my dad. It always felt that way—that I wasn't shutting myself inside, but instead I was putting a little cap on the world. And in that way the world was contained. It couldn't get to me and for a while I felt free of the story it imposed on me.
Fourteen years old, the first time I summoned the courage to pry the door open and force my way inside. Still dressed in my sweat-soaked basketball uniform—I had just quit the team—I slumped down behind Dad's desk and admitted to myself that he wasn't coming home. And that my mom was delusional, at least where my father was concerned. And it was the first time I started to wake up to the madness of the world. Lies. Self-deceptions. False identities. The words I learned as a child were spells designed to control me. I wanted free of them.
I dumped myself into the leather-back chair, reached into the top drawer of the desk and took hold of my dad's smokeless ashtray. His fifteen year-old Winstons remained undisturbed. Instead, I fetched my medicine bag and a tightly-rolled joint. I stuck the joint between my lips and leaned back in the chair. For a brief second, while I fumbled for my box of matches, he stood directly in front of me. Not my dad—I wouldn't have minded seeing my dad. Nicolai, Yoga Man, whatever the shirtless hunk next door called himself.
I closed my eyes as my left hand found its way to my crotch. I stroked and thumped at my zipper—finding that my stiffening cock had stretched the fabric of my shorts like a snare drum. “Fuck...” I glanced down at my bulge. Any other day, with any other person, I wouldn't have hesitated. I would have peeled my shorts to my knees and rubbed myself until I squirted a puddle on the desk. But there was a creepiness about Nicolai that made me wary of him. I didn't want him in my fantasies.
I struck a match against the side of the box and whatever image my mind had conjured faded. My shaken soda feeling quieted and my whole body relaxed. My horniness stuck around, but Nikolai no longer stirred my thoughts.
I took a long hard drag from my joint as I freed my tackle from its box. I closed my eyes. I already knew where I wanted to go. The showers at the gym. His name was Jason. He trained as a bodybuilder and worked as a fitness coach. A beautiful balance body and long cock that bounced between his thighs. “Come fuck me, Jason.” I stroked my rabbit. “Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me.”
I played this little fantasy in my mind, where he met me in the sauna. Pulled my ankles over his shoulders. Lifted my hips in his powerful hands, and slid his pole into my hole. I imagined the way he looked at me and smiled. His powerful thighs. His rip stomach. His thick cock prying me wide open and plowing deep inside of me. I felt pressure building inside of me. Absolute delight swam in my guts. I felt my heart racing. I felt cum entering my shaft. I felt myself on the brink of eruption. And just as I started to shoot, the most peculiar image jumped into my mind—one I could not shake. Not Nicolai. Not Jason. Me. Naked in the desert. Squinting through the glaring sun at a strangely-shaped tree.
My eyes sprang open. “The fuck?”