Daddy Issues

"I know it's Thanksgiving, but do you think I could order the lamb loin rather than the turkey, Senator?"

"My goodness, Aden, you don't need my permission on what to order for dinner, and please call me Clayton or Clay, especially when we're out like we are now."

Where we were was in the swank Inn at Little Washington, more than an hour's drive into the hunt country of Northern Virginia from Washington, D.C. I could see his point about being overheard calling him "senator," although in this region many would recognize him on sight and the Inn at Little Washington and it's Michelin Green Star rating was a place people would recognize other patrons. Of course it also was a place where people who could afford to eat there and stay in its inn wouldn't gossip about others who did.

He was older than my father was and I couldn't help thinking of him as a father figure—and he was my boss—so I wasn't comfortable calling him by his first name. I'd have to try to go with "sir," I supposed. And I couldn't help it, I did feel like I needed his permission for just about everything. That continued after we'd ordered our meal.

"I've seen a 2015 Audi A5 I'm thinking of buying and I wondered what you thought about that."

"That's rather an expensive sporty car isn't it?" he asked.

"Well, yes, but it's a 2015. I like the styling."

"I imagine car thieves would like the styling too," Senator Trenton said, "That's always a factor to take into account when your parking is on the Hill. It's a bad crime area for car theft. How is the mileage and how does

Consumer Reports

rate the safety features?"

"I guess I'll have to look into that," I said. He answered just as a father would, but I suppose that's why I brought it up—to get the more sensible look on out on the table. He also encouraged me to consult with him on "getting adjusted" to Washington, D.C. matters—again like a father with experience in that would.

"How are you getting along with Gail?" he asked.

He was perceptive and he'd been watching. I had a fancy constituent affairs title in his Senate office, but what that really meant is that I read and answered letters coming from people in his state. Gail headed this unit and gave me a rough time. "She rides me a little hard."

He laughed "That's because she wants to ride you," he said, "but I suppose that's good."

"Why is that?" I asked.

"If she and others in the office—and there are others with the hots for you—are thinking they can attain you, I suppose none of them suspect. Do you wish me to have a talk with her about being on your case too much?"

"I see what you mean," I said. "No, Sir, I guess I can handle it myself."

"Good boy," he said, smiled at me, and patted me on the forearm. "If you think it best to bed her, I, of course, will understand."

I didn't quite know what to say about that, but then I didn't have to say anything. The inn's effervescent chef, Patrick O'Connell, was making the rounds of the tables to sprinkle the diners with his own special glitter and he was about to reach us. I excused myself to go to the men's room so as not to have myself associated with the senator in O'Connell's discerning eyes, and when I came back the chef had moved on and our dinner was arriving.

There was another man in the men's room—a middle-aged man who was gray-haired and expensively dressed—who gave me the eye. I had learned when men were giving me the eye. I smiled at him, but with the "not interested" look I'd learned to use. I didn't know what some men and women saw in me in terms of want and vulnerability, but as it got me attention from men like the senator, I guess I wouldn't try to change it.

When we left the inn, Trenton passed a key card to me and pointed to the building where his room was, which was across the street from the inn's restaurant. The inn was actually several old residential and commercial buildings in the center of a small, rural Viriginia town that claimed the distinction of being the first one named after the father of the country—even before the nation's capital. The senator was in the Carter House junior suite, one of twenty-three distinctive inn rooms scattered in buildings in the village.

We left the inn separately, Trenton to go directly to the Carter House and me to walk over to the parallel Gay Street, where I'd parked my car, away from the inn, to fetch my backpack with my overnight needs. The senator was checked in for two days—alone, although he no doubt had slipped the reception desk a big tip to know, but not know, there would be more than one.

I walked to the end of Gay Street and back to the car, to get the backpack, and then, looking around to make sure I wasn't under surveillance, I entered the Carter House and went upstairs to Room 14. This wasn't the first time we'd met in Room 14 of the Carter House.

Trenton was in one of the hotel's silken robes when I let myself into the suite. And nothing else. He had the stereo on to Frank Sinatra tunes, the fireplace going, and two glasses of wine poured. He handed me a glass of wine and we stood there, in the center of the bedroom, facing each other, close, eyes locked, while we drank it.

"You are such a desirable young man," he murmured. He reached out with his free hand and cupped the side of my face. I leaned into his touch.

"Thank you. I'm honored," I answered, not specifying whether I felt honored that he thought I was desirable or that a U.S. senator was humping me, but I guess both applied.

He was taller and more solidly built than I was. He was strikingly handsome, with wavy hair gray at the temples. At fifty-two, he was still in great shape. I was smaller, shorter and leaner. I'd gotten a lot of attention with my copper-colored hair, green eyes, and shy smile. Trent said I was the perfect introverted submissive. He certainly held his own as the perfect dominant, extravert top.

He finished his wine first, putting the glass down on a side table and unbuttoning my shirt and pulling it off my back from underneath the tie that he left in place. I had to switch my wine glass from hand to hand to help him take my shirt off. He touched my nipples, one after the other which his index finger and I shuddered for him. He ran his hands over my chest, rubbing my nipples, as I drank my wine more slowly than he had. Our eyes were still locked.

"I wish we could do this more often," he said, "But it's so hard to get away."

"I do too," I said. I knew this was difficult for him and he did have trouble slipping out of the public eye for this. I went with men more often—older men—so it wasn't as much of a momentous event for me. He was the man, though. I was here to give him pleasure and I would do it as well as I could. He was still virile at fifty-two, at least with the Viagra assist, and I was athletic. It would be an eventful night.

He reached down and unbuckled my belt and unzipped me, pushing my trousers and briefs down to the floor. I already had removed my shoes, leaving me with high black stockings and black leather garters. He liked me to keep those on. I stepped out of my trousers while he took my empty wine glass from me and put it beside his on the side table. He reached down and took my glans between two fingers and pressed a finger into my urethra opening and I gave him a low moan.

"You are hard for me," he whispered, cupping my balls and weighing them before encircling my cock and beginning to slow stroke me.

"Yes," I answered.

"I like that."

"Fuck me, Daddy," I murmured. "I need your cock."

We kissed while I unknotted his robe and flared it. He was, as I surmised, naked under the robe and in erection—not as big as he could be, though. He hadn't taken the pills yet.

"Give me some love, son," he whispered, coming out of the kiss. A role we played was kicking in.

"Yes, Daddy," I answered, went down on my knees before him, took his cock in my mouth, and gave him loving head.

After a few minutes, he pushed me off his cock and said, "Want to be the best I can be for my boy. I'll be back." He left me and went into the bathroom.

My cellphone picked that moment to chirp. I leaned down, fished around in the pocket of my trousers, and answered it.

"Aden? I know it's Thanksgiving and late there, but I couldn't wait to let you know."

"Is everything OK, Dad?" I asked. "The chemo . . . they haven't . . .?"

"That's it. I was pronounced cancer free today. No more chemo, at least for now. The lungs are clear."

"That's great, Dad. Thanks for calling. That's just great." The senator was standing in the doorway of the bathroom, leaning into the frame, holding his erection in his hand. The shaft was engorging even as I was watching. He'd taken pills.

"I was thinking that maybe you could come out to Fort Collins for Christmas. We could put up a tree together, like we did when you were little. I thought I'd be in the hospital or maybe just . . . gone . . . but now. Now I can make some plans. It would be great to see you."

"I'll look at my schedule, Dad," I answered. "We'll see—"

"What's that, Chuck?" my dad said. He was responding to someone on his end of the line. Chuck. I froze. Chuck was still in the frame—although I'd never actually met him. "Listen, Aden, I have to go. I just wanted to let you know the news."

"That's great, Dad. I'll look at my schedule. I'll do what I can." The mention of Chuck had cooled off his news, although I certainly was happy for him.

"Dad? I thought your parents were dead," Trenton said as he moved into the room and over to the sofa. His shaft was hard and as big as whatever pills he often took could make it—which was taxingly big.

Well, up until a moment ago I thought my dad was dying too. But then he'd been dying from me for decades. "My mother and my step-father died in a plane crash, yes. My biological father is alive, but he never married my mother and I can't remember him being around much if at all." I didn't mention how for years I'd been sent to him for Christmas and how I tried to live up to his expectations when we were together and I never thought I had. He was a football coach, at first in high schools and then in colleges. We just had nothing in common, except, peculiarly, he had Chuck and I had older men. A father and son who were both actively gay.

"He lives in Fort Collins, Colorado—a football coach at the university there. He's been battling lung cancer. Taking chemo for it. I'd assumed it would take him by now, or soon. But he called just now to say the chemo worked. He's been declared cancer free. He wants me to come out for Christmas."

"Well, good for him. Congress will be closed for Christmas—my office too. I don't see why you can't go see him. I assume you want to."

That was Trenton's way to telling me I wouldn't be welcome to be with him in his home state for Christmas. I was a hidden . . . whatever. I'd never figured out what a male mistress was called.

"I'm not sure about that—whether I want to see him for Christmas. We always seemed to be running on two different tracks. And it hasn't improved, even with the health scare."

Chuck. It should help that I was gay too, but it didn't. It had all come down before I knew I was gay.

"Well, I'm your daddy now. I'll give you all of the attention you can handle. Come over here and ride me." He was sitting on the coach. The robe was flared, he was slow stroking a quite impressive hard erection. "Sit on it. Fuck yourself."

I knew he was keyed up and wanted it. He didn't talk dirty until he was in high heat.

I went to the sofa, climbed into his lap, facing him, helped him position his cock head, descended on it, and, grasping his biceps while he grasped my waist, rose and fell on the cock. He was stretching me; I felt him and melted at being fully possessed. Rising and falling, concentrating on it sliding inside me, feeling the muscles of my walls clutching it, milking it. I closed my eyes and rocked on the shaft, moaning. His hands grasped my waist, helping me to rise and fall, thrusting up and back with his hips.

Half way through that first fuck, I turned facing away from him, buried my feet in the back of the sofa for leverage, and inclined my torso over the floor in front of the sofa, hands clutching his knees, my body hovering over his thighs like I was doing pushups, and him turning my tie to the back and using it as reins, while I continued to move on the cock.

"Riding me good, baby," he murmured. "Love the flexibility of your beautiful little body."

"Oh, Daddy, Daddy, you're so big," I answered as we fucked. The senator like for me to take athletic positions.

Later I knelt at the end of the bed on my knees and hands, with him standing on the floor and fucking me in a doggy, still using my tie as reins.

Late in the night, after having gone to sleep stretched out against each other on the bed, my butt cuddled into his groin, I woke to him rubbing my nipples and kissing me in the hollow of my throat. I reached back to find he still had his erection.

Putting his cock in position, I whispered, "Fuck me, Daddy. Fuck me again. Fuck me good."

I groaned as he penetrated again and fucked me good. The last thing I said before we went to sleep was, "Did I do good, Daddy?"

"Yes, son, you did very good indeed," he answered, allowing me to sleep contented.

* * * *

I was in another hotel room—in the MGM casino hotel in the National Harbor complex on the Maryland side of the Woodrow Wilson Capital Beltway bridge over the Potomac River to the east of downtown Washington, D.C., when the other call came through three weeks later.

I'd responded to an Internet young guys for older guys dating service I took my casual hookups from when I was in the mood, and, looking to the trip out West I agreed to make for Christmas, I had definitely been in the mode for a distraction. I didn't want to go to Colorado, but I considered myself duty bound to go. The senator had already left Washington for an extended winter holidays check with his constituents and backers in his home state and his congressional office had been shut down.

The man, going by the name of Warren, wasn't anyone like I'd hooked up with before. He was black and bald and big, nearly 270 pounds he'd owned up to. But he also registered as tall, at nearly six foot seven, which made the weight not nearly as bad visually as the poundage suggested. I just had to be careful not to be crushed in the clutches. What had attracted me, though, was that he claimed to be a college basketball coach and right at the end of his blurb he'd written, "Do you need a daddy? Let me be your daddy." He claimed to be forty-eight, which was right on the button in my book—nearly twice my twenty-six.

I set up a date with him at the Felt bar in the MGM casino hotel. It was a get-acquainted and check each other out meeting, with me saying that's as far as I went on the first date. Drinks and he was on the hook to get tickets that night for the black R&B singer, Maxwell, in the casino's theater. We'd meet and talk.

We did meet. He was a handsome man, and he knew quite a lot about music and the R&B genre, so he was pleased with the choice of meetings. I was a singer too, so we had that to talk about. He carried his weight well and he was well spoken, which surprised me from a basketball player. He was well and expensively dressed. We both were wearing suits to satisfy the dress "suggestions" of the casino.

"I coach basketball at a college in Towson, Maryland," he said.

I admitted I worked on a congressional staff on Capitol Hill, but I didn't go further. "The office is on hiatus for Christmas."

"So, you don't have to appear at the office at dawn tomorrow," he said, giving me a piercing look.

I knew why he said that. I'd already been mulling if I'd let him do it on the first date. He had been eyeing me from the get-go like he wanted to do me, so I guess I'd passed muster with him. From appearances and the conversation we were having, he certainly passed muster with me.

He looked better than I'd been prepared for. And him being black and big had set my imagination going. There was something they said about what being big and black meant. I'd always wondered how much of a myth it was. It was natural for us both to be considering the subtext here. It was a Grindr-type dating site that had brought us together.

"No, I'm not on an office schedule until next year, after Epiphany."

"Epiphany?" he asked.

"January 6th. When the three kings came—I mean arrived in Bethlehem—supposedly, if you believe that stuff. Congress doesn't come back into session until after that, though." We both smiled at the word "came" and about the underlying issue we weren't addressing—at least yet. I quickly continued, latching on to him saying he was a college basketball coach. "I know college football and I played collegiate tennis myself, but I don't follow basketball much. I thought of basketball players as tall and skinny, but you . . ."

"That was basketball 'then'—in the dark ages," Warren said, with a laugh. "It's a high-impact contact sport now. What contact did you have with college football, though. You're a small guy—a great-looking small guy. Don't get me wrong. You're being small was a turn-on for me."

It was my turn to laugh. "I'm only small in terms of football and basketball players. I'm five-eleven. That's fine for tennis. My dad is a football coach. High school when he was close enough to home for me to go to his games. I went on my high school team and warmed the bench just so we'd have something to talk about other than family issues when I visited him. He's coaching college now, in Colorado. Or at least I think he's still coaching."

"You don't know?"

"We haven't been close for a very long time. My parents split up before I was a teen. I'd go to him for Christmas and he'd just come off his season and was busy putting a team together for the next season. We had different interests. Me drama and music and politics and my dad contact sports." Of course, there was something we naturally had in common—sex with men—but he was there when I was young and he and my mother were splitting up. It came to me later. Maybe, to some extent, in response to him. "But I guess I don't know if he's still coaching because he's been sick."

"Sick?"

"Yes, he's been fighting lung cancer. He's got it licked for now, but I don't know whether he's still working with that going on. I guess I'll find out in a couple of weeks. I'm going there—to Colorado—for Christmas."

"And you're looking forward to that?" Warren asked.

"It's happening. I'm not sure how much either of us will enjoy it. We still have issues."

"You have daddy issues," Warren said, his voice quiet. "And that's why you date older men off a gay male site?"

"Funny, isn't it?" I said.

"I don't think it's funny at all. I think maybe a daddy is what you're looking for—one who is here, not an elusive one in Colorado. Maybe you're looking for someone to control you and guide you in giving and receiving pleasure." He touched my forearm with his fingers. I was surprised at the electricity in me that that produced. I already was half hard just having him there, a commanding presence, and listening to what I hadn't been able to tell anyone else. But I didn't tell even him about Chuck.

"Maybe so," I said. "But I want more than that from a man."

"From an older man?"

"Yes."

"I have a room booked upstairs. Come upstairs with me now. Let me be your daddy. I'll control and direct you—and punish you too if you don't do it as I like. If that's what you want."

"A room? We said we'd just talk on a first date."

"You said that. I didn't. If I want to fuck a guy on the first date I do, if he'll let me. I want to fuck you."

"We have tickets to the Maxwell concert—don't we? And this is the first date. We were just going to talk."