I called him boy. Boy, of course, wasn’t really accurate as he was legally an adult - he was however 35 years younger than I was. His name was Andy. I never called him that. Just boy.
I was a more or less contented married man in my early fifties. My two children had finished high school. My son was interstate at college while my daughter had moved into an apartment with some friends in a nearby suburb. I’d recently resigned a managerial job with a large company and was operating a one-person consultancy from home and doing satisfactorily at it. My wife was still working long hours in a senior government position.
We’d been married for 30 years. Before getting together we’d each had a little sexual experience but basically we’d learnt about sex together and enjoyed it in a variety of forms and places. We weren’t staid or conservative and we thought we were rather sexually adventurous although not too much so. Over the years we’d had the usual ups and downs; my wife had had 3 or 4 affairs that I knew of, one of which was quite serious and which had at the time hurt me deeply. Probably she had had other sexual adventures as well which I never discovered. For my part I had enjoyed a number of end-of-conference one-night stands, some of which she suspected and one longer-term relationship with a work colleague that I was sure she never knew about. We’d muddled through these episodes as well as anyone and we could still kiss and cuddle and say with truth to each other ‘I love you’.
Yet, like many of our age, generation and experience we were slowly and quite comfortably, drifting apart. Sex between us became more and more infrequent. I was finding that my erections were not as hard and that sometimes I was impotent. I was thinking about the need for Viagra when sex between us just petered out and my performance was no longer an issue.
It wasn’t that I thought less about sex. On the contrary, I seemed to think of little else. Some days, alone in my home office, I would put off work and spend the entire time on the Net, surfing porn sites participating in chat rooms and masturbating, two, three or four times a day. My cyber-sexual interests were extraordinarily varied and I was finding myself turned on by almost everything available in the vicarious cornucopia of sex available on the World Wide Web. I surprised even myself with the way I behaved in chat rooms and in the email dalliances I pursued. I always pretended to be someone else and although I knew that this was supposed to be normal cyber practice, I was taken aback at how naturally and easily I fell into the habit. Sometimes I would be young woman, leading on men my own age; sometimes an older woman seducing would be and inexperienced studs. Sometimes I would act the submissive, at others I was a master and occasionally I chanced a foray into bisexuality, gay roles and fetishism. Much of this was new to me; all turned me on to greater or lesser degree.
I was in this state of heightened sexual awareness when it happened. My daughter came to dinner with her new boyfriend, a boy she had been at school with.
‘Dad, this is Andy,’ she introduced him to me at the door.
‘Hi Andy,’ I responded mechanically as a plethora of images, thoughts and sensations felt like they were melting my synapses and I, a calm, rational, normal person, tried to wrestle with what this meant.
The boy was ordinary. He was smallish and slight, almost girlish looking, badly cut blondish hair, and with nervous jerky movements. Only his eyes seemed remarkable: piercingly pale blue and large. He was dressed in fashionable grunge that concealed the detail of his body. He was nothing like my daughter’s previous boyfriends and was I guess the sort of young man one would normally not even register as he passed by in the street many times every day. And I, except for my recent cyber curiosity, as far as I knew myself, a totally heterosexual middle-aged man, was standing there feeling my nipples tingle unbearably and my cock growing, as I desperately wanting to touch this boy.
And what is more, what was frightening and overwhelming to me, was that immediately I looked into his eyes, I knew that he knew I wanted him. And I knew that he knew that I knew.
The meal went by in a daze. I kept looking at the boy while my mouth spouted the usual family dinner conversation. We locked eyes several times but apart from a reinforcement of the knowledge that he knew, I could read nothing in them. I tried to match my trip to the bathroom to his so I could grab a second or two alone just to see if my feelings were right although I had no idea what I would say. I just knew I had to say something.
As the night wound up and they prepared to leave I surreptitiously took one of my business cards, wrote ‘call me’ on it, and as I shook hands goodbye with him I passed it to him. I saw him look at it, read it and put it in his pocket without any sort of response to me. My daughter and the boy left.
