Daddy's Little Boy -- Chapter 1

"And just how old are you, Chris?"

I had a damn good idea. After all I had two nephews, one just ready to graduate from high school and the other a sophomore at Purdue. This neat and well mannered young gentleman was their contemporary, I was sure.

He looked over at me shyly, peeking up through those thick brown lashes. "You really want to know?" he asked, his voice low and husky. So far that's what I'd heard from him every time he spoke. But that voice didn't fit. Somehow I felt he was playing at being older, more sophisticated, worldly.

I don't -- well, up 'til now, I haven't got involved with a youngster. He wouldn't even be sitting there in the passenger seat except he'd stuck up the conversation, asking if I could possibly give him a ride. I was sure he was interested in more. After all he'd been hanging around inside the bookstore, right outside the adult room. He clearly knew which section of the X-rated magazines I had been perusing. Our eyes had met at least four times before I got what I wanted and started for the cash register. He'd left before I checked out, but had been right outside and started wheedling for that ride, walking along beside me like he belonged. I'd ignored him until I got to the car. Stupidly I just opened the door and got in. He'd followed suite and got into the passenger side.

I stuck my keys back in my pocket and turned to face him. "I want to know or I wouldn't have asked. After all, kid, you just got in a car with someone you don't know. That can be dangerous, for you -- and for me, too."

"Hey, dad, don't worry. It's just me. I'm past the age of consent and you can frisk me if you want to. That might be sort of fun in fact." A light smirk curled his lips. He still had his head bowed, hands folded primly in his lap.

"You going to answer my question or not?"

"I told you. Oh, hell, dad, I'm eighteen, born February 13th in '68. Need a calculator. Why is this such a thing?" He lifted his head and gave me a belligerent stare.

"'Cause I don't mess with kids, kid."

"I'm no kid, mister. I like your style -- cautious, concerned. Can we go now? You live around here?" His eyes lowered again. His voice got lower but softer.

"So we're suppose to go to my place. What if I'd rather hit the turnpike and check into a motel?" I was beginning to get a buzz thinking about what might be, if I let the appealing young man stay seated where he was and drove off.

"That's up to you. We can't go to my place. My old man's home, and so's my brothers. You don't want to get involved with them. Even I don't want to get involved with them." Now his voice was harsher, hard. He spit out ever syllable in that last statement.

"Please, can we go. I need to crash someplace tonight, dad. I can show you a good time, mister, really. I liked your looks from the start."

I could tell between the lines he wanted a few strokes himself. Just wasn't used to openly asking for complements. I reached out and touched him on his arm. He jerked away, then looked me up and down.

"Sorry, I'm jumpy. It's not you."

"You're a good looking young man, Chris. If you come with me -- if -- there's no pressure. You need a place to stay, you've got a place. I don't want anything from you in payment." That was hard to say, but it was the truth. It didn't mean I wasn't hopeful, but it did mean I was not going to put the moves on this kid. If anything happened it was going to be all his doing. I was sure I could control myself. I had no idea on how to, or desire to, control him.

We sat looking at each other. Me in my suit and loose tie, him in is preppy sweatshirt and blue jeans. A paper sack with the latest copies of "Honcho" and "Inches" between us.

"Do we have an agreement?" I asked, jingling the keys in my pocket.

"Can we get something to eat? Or, do you have something at your place? I've been bumming for two days." He kept his eyes locked with mine.

It was possible. He sure hadn't been in those clothes for two days in a row. Maybe he had been out of them most of the time.

"Sure." I stuck the keys in the ignition. "So, you're going home with a stranger. Do this a lot, Chris?"

He turned back, facing forward and dropping his eyes. His reply was very soft. I just barely heard him. "None of your fucking business, dad. It's my life. I don't know you. You don't know me. Let's just leave it that way."

I nodded and paid attention to the traffic. We stopped at a Jack-In-The-Box. He wasn't hungry. He was famished. It was half gone by the time we pulled up in the parking lot in from of my apartment. Politely he carried the sacks while I juggled my briefcase and a small pile of month-end computer printouts that needed review. I was doubtful I was going to get to them, but it was habit, and they shouldn't just be laying around in the car.

My place was a corporate rental, a one bedroom, the second door from the corner in the back row of a well tended complex of single story town house apartments. They were fire and soundproof. I did my own day to day cleaning. Once a month I straightened up, put all the magazines in a footlocker, stripped the bedroom walls storing the selected centerfolds and other art with the magazines. The hunting prints were back on the walls when the complex's cleaning service gave the place it's heavy duty cleaning.

In the living room I had two large portrait shots side by side over the desk -- Jess, my best friend and frequent companion from the university faculty, and Robert, my first lover. That was a photo that was taken the year Chris was born way back when Robert and I graduated and first set out to conquer the world. Sticking my briefcase under the desk and the print outs on it I looked at that photo again and knew why I'd let this kid bamboozle me. He was Robert, back when we first met, my first year at college.

Chris was sitting at the dining room table at the end of the room, finishing off his meal. After cautiously pulling the blinds on the front window I walked down and joined him. He watched me intently as I opened my 'burger and shook out the fries on the wrapper beside it.

"You want this? I'm really not hungry." I shoved it toward him.

"You sure?"

When I nodded and pushed it closer he took it. He wolfed it down. Leaning back in his chair he closed his eyes as a contented look spread across his face. He gently rubbed both hands on his stomach and let out a sigh. I was studying his face now that I knew what it was that had made him so appealing. The hair style was not from the sixties, but it was Robert's face, even the nose had that left hook. His eyes popped open, catching me. He smiled, his eyes sparking, and I caught my breath.

This was just not possible. I knew there was no way Robert had fathered a child that first year when we met. He was afraid of the female sex then. Had learned to tolerate them by the time we broke up in '74. Tolerate, hell. We broke up because he was sleeping around, all around. If it had a hole and it could be fucked he went for it.

"What's so interesting, dad?"

Shrugging, I reminded him that I had told him he was a good looking young man. "I like looking at you. Does it bother you?"

"Hell, no! Want a good look?" With that he pushed back his chair, stood and stripped off the sweatshirt, laying it over the back of the chair.

He was trim, smooth and without a hair on his torso -- just two brown tufts under his arms which were more muscular than his chest. His jeans rode low on his hips showing a slim waist with a flat tummy. His abs wee there, defined, but -- like his chest -- needing attention, to be firmed, pumped.

"So, let's get a look at the business man." It was said with a challenge. "You spend all your time behind a desk, dad, or do you hit the gym now and then? I'd bet you work out. Come on. You're not shy, are you?"

"Screw you, smart ass," I said, standing on the other side of the table. I put my coat on the back of the chair and tugged off my tie, fumbling with the buttons of my shirt.

When I was finished the tie and shirt lay in the seat of the chair. My young visitor was pursing his lips and nodding in appreciation. Yep, I do work out, at least twice a week with Jess -- we met at the gym. There are two sets of dumbbells under the bed for my morning exercises.

Chris came around the table not taking his eyes off me -- his interest concentrated on my body. Our eyes never met. As he drew close he reached out a hand, tentative, almost as if he expected me to bat it away. I stood still. This was his game. His fingers lightly brushed across my chest, following the swell of my pecs. He grasped my right bicep.

"Let's feel it, dad." His voice was not quite as low pitched as it had been. The husky, come on quality wasn't there either. I think Chris was starting to be himself, relax.

I made a fist and raised my forearm. Chris let out an 'oo' that was almost sensual.

"You do work out. That's prime." Letting go of my arm he moved around me. The flat of his hand ran across my abs, around my side and over my back. "Nice. Very nice." He wasn't talking to me but muttering to himself. Stopping on the other side he put a hand up on my shoulder. "Someday this is how I want to look, like an older guy should, not all puffy, fat, sloppy."

Wanting to encourage him, let him know that it didn't have to be some way off time, I spoke up. "Chris, you've got the basics already. You just need to spend time, get a good workout going. I could help. If you want me to. You could pump up quickly with the right diet and the right set of exercises."

He looked me in the eye, then gave me a wan smile. His head shook -- disbelief, disinterest, I couldn't tell. Whatever, his concentration was broken.

"Let's relax, watch a little TV. I'm stuffed. Thanks for dinner, dad." He headed back into the living area, plopped on the couch and kicked off his shoes.

Neat freak me gathered up the Jack-In-The-Box leavings, stuffed them all in one of the sacks and stepped into the kitchen to dispose of it. Sticking my head back around the corner I asked if he wanted something to drink.

"Soda, iced tea, beer?"

He clicked on the TV, gave an enthusiastic nod when I mentioned beer and started channel surfing. I deposited the open cans on the table beside the couch and told Chris I was going to get out of the rest of my work clothes.

He looked up with a grin and asked if I needed any help. I deferred, grabbing my stuff out of the chair and walked into the bedroom telling him I'd be right back. My watch, change, billfold went in the top drawer of the dresser. I hung up the suit and tie. The shirt, socks and boxers were tossed on the pile of dirty clothes in the back of the closet.