WEDNESDAY
"Andy, sit down here for a second. You're eighteen and a man now, and you'll be on your own at college soon. I just want to tell you...you know you can tell me anything, right? Absolutely anything. I'll always love and support you. You know that, right?"
"Yea, dad. Thanks. Can I go now?"
"Andy.... I know about the knot," I said, trying to be matter-of-fact.
"What? I don't know what you're talking about," he barked, having lost his poker face. "Look, I gotta go." He grabbed his baseball cap and book bag and sailed out the door, slamming it behind him.
Fuck. I knew that wasn't going to go well.
Andy's mom had bolted, too, right after he was born. The thicker-than-normal black hair on his tiny body was all the proof she needed that his real father's genes weren't dormant. Fortunately, my own hairiness, stemming from my Greek and Italian ancestry, answered whatever questions people had about how such a young man could have such a thick mat on his chest, arms, legs and back. "We're Mediterranean!" I'd joke. What else could it be?
For a long time, I thought the werewolf traits would be minimal, manifesting themselves only in his body hair, muscular and athletic frame, extraordinary vision and sense of smell. Oh, and a larger than average penis. Hehe. "So he'll grow up to be a champion on the field and in the bedroom," I thought. "Nothing wrong with that."
Although a full moon didn't seem to affect him (to my great relief), something worse did as he got older -- his hormones and instinct to breed.
Andy and I had a discussion years ago about the birds and the bees, but I never asked him if he had lost his virginity. I just assumed he had, because he was intensely interested in girls and went on dates. Yet, he was moody and restless after an evening with a girl, and the dates often ended badly. "She's not right for me!" he'd snap before locking himself in his room. "Just leave me alone, okay?"
And then I saw it.
It was a Saturday morning a few weeks ago. I quietly snuck into his room to grab his dirty laundry. He was sound asleep on his back and uncovered by the sheet which he had kicked off. Much to my embarrassment, he had had a wet dream, and his still rigid, yet softening, penis had slipped out of the fly of his boxer shorts and was gradually coming to rest against his leg. My stomach churned when I realized that what looked like a large tub of yogurt dumped onto his leg and mattress was actually ungodly amounts of semen, which permeated the room with an earthy, barnyard smell. As riveting as all that cum was, my attention quickly turned to his dick head which had the same general mushroom shape of every other guy's but was significantly larger, about the size of a small orange, and the edges of the crown flared out more than an inch from the shaft and were ringed with small spikes. Spikes!
"What the fuck?" I said under my breath as I took a closer look, feeling creepy and awkward in the process. I immediately imagined how that head would lock into place in a vagina or anus (after a difficult entry) and be next to impossible to remove before the penis had gone flaccid. The design was scary yet impressive, like a cock crossed with a medieval mace. My own penis seemed woefully inadequate, like a pinky compared to a fist.
I left the laundry on the floor and tiptoed out, reassessing my boy's predicament. His behavior made sense to me now, and I felt a wave of sympathy. I recalled in flashes the various times we'd be around girls in the mall or elsewhere and he'd lock his eyes on them like prey, wrinkle his nose as he inhaled the scent between their legs, and then grow agitated and moody. I knew he was horny and frustrated like other young men, but I didn't realize how much so -- or why.
