First entry in an exploration of father-son sex.
Contains: consenting gay sex between a teenage son and his father.
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"Calvin!" his mother was accustomed to shouting up the staircase. "I'm about to put a load in the wash. Can you get your father's laundry."
"Yeah, and I was about to take my pants off and shoot a load."
This was something I wasn't going to miss when I started college in the autumn. No interruptions. No shouting up the stairs, no family laundry, no household chores. Time would be my own, and I would be thousands of miles away.
"Calvin?" she shouted back. "I need it now. Dinner is soon!"
"OK," I shouted back, not hiding my scorn. "I'm getting up!"
"And make sure you get whatever he left on the bathroom floor. He's just back from his rugby game, and I don't want to smell his stink!"
Calvin was an only child house and their home wasn't too large. Fortunately for his masturbating habit, his room was at the opposite corner of the upstairs from his parents', but it was a short walk around the staircase nonetheless.
When Calvin walked into his parents' bedroom, he set his eyes on the closet, but was distracted by the heavy mist emerging from the on-suite bathroom. Even as it cut through the heavily air-conditioned home, the humidity of the shower was having an impact in the Virginia summer and the room was warm. Hot even. Calvin peered through the mist and caught sight of his father's built body through the glass shower door. It was at first only a glimpse in the fog, but the longer he stood there, he caught a clearer sense of his dad's body, pelted with driblets of water and suds, on full display.
I had seen my dad naked before. When he was a small boy, his dad would take him to the swimming pool and he remembered seeing his dad's lithe swimmer's body, his shapely calves, and the smattering of hairs that marked his manhood: nothing on his bald head but there was a manly five-o'clock shadow, sprouting weeds on his armpits, a healthy smattering across his masculine and bits of wiry hairs peeking up from his waistband, leading into a small trail to his navel. Calvin loved these swimming trips with his dad; his special occasions with dad. But it was the before and after that matter the most; the local swimming pool had an open changing room and an open shower. He remembered the smell of man sweat and chlorine—it was a sweet chemical smell that Calvin attached to his sexual awakening, looking around and seeing cocks of different shapes and sizes at every time, squeezing into short shorts and board shorts and speedos and briefs. Cut and uncut, densely hairy and neatly trimmed. But it was his dad's that he remembered best: a dense mat of pubic hair that would have swallowed his cock were it not so thick, vein-y and round, ending in a sweet pink dome.
These trips with his dad ended around the time Calvin was ten or so, old enough for a faulty sense of shame to come over him. And certainly old enough to know that he shouldn't feel so turned on by his naked father. Mr. Hobbes began to sense his son's shame and eventually stopped bringing him, knowing that puberty was beginning to drive a wedge between the two of them.
So it was a thrill for Calvin to see his father like this. He had caught him shirtless before on family beach trips. He knew his father's body, though aged as he passed his half-century mark, was still lean and muscular. His pectorals were still sculpted from his insistence on exercise, his shoulders still broad, with muscles creating divets in his body where pools of water collected the shower spring. His abs, not a six-pack, but defined, as if they were chiselled from the solid rock of his torso. His buttocks still defined, as if he was clenching it, and his cock as big as ever. With the water casting down his body, his thick pubic hair was moistened, collapsing into his skin and draping his large cock. The water seemed to drip down it for ages, charging down its veiny surface into his thick head. But Calvin knew this was one area of his body that looked as fresh as ever.
He ducked into his parent's closet and grabbed their hamper, filled with dirty clothes. But he had to step into the bathroom to pick up his dad's dirty clothes. Calvin still felt that sense of shame around his sexuality. To be closeted and a virgin was one thing, but to lust for his father was another entirely. He tiptoed into the bathroom, bending over to pick up his father's rugby clothes: smelly socks, short shorts, a jersey. Each piece brought him closer to the shower, closer to the thin piece of glass separating moisture and dry, nude and clothed. Fortunately, his father's back was turned so he couldn't see his son creeping around, reaching toward the sweaty jock strap he had left on the floor.
As Calvin reached for the jock, he could immediately smell the pungent stench left behind by his father. A warm aroma of intense sweat mixed with a hint of piss and a general man musk. Coupled by the scent of his father's middle aged body, still showing signs of his muscles—a V-shaped framed, a crease down the back ending in soft dimples and an ass built like two soft stones, dimpled with muscles, dusted with a bit of moss around the crack and cheeks. He slowed down enjoying the moment, just briefly but sensed his father turning and snatched the jock and hopped out of the bathroom, jumping through the door and immediately beside it, pressing his body against the wall as he took a breath.
Calvin looked down and realized that the jockstrap remained in his hand. He contemplated it for a moment, looking at the hamper of clothes at his feet, thinking about tossing it in. But he instead brought it closer to his fast, grabbing the very piece of cloth that had kept his father's cock in place during his exercised. Within an inch of his face, he eyed it, seeing small stains and a stray pubic hair across the white knit fabric. This close, the smell was intoxicating. He pulled it closer to his face, burying his nose in the space his father's crotch had been, only fifteen minutes ago, and took a deep breath of it. The nuances of the odor were familiar, ones that had become naturalized from living with his dad for eighteen years. But with such potency, they took a new effect. He felt it immediately, this odd proximity to his father sent blood flowing through his body. Endorphins rocked Calvin's brain, and he felt pressure in his own underpants.
The door to his father's bathroom was still ajar as he did this. He wanted one more look at the man who had produced this incredible odor, and peeled his body off the wall, peeking through the door hinges to get a fractured glimpse of his father's body. Tanned and muscled, Calvin was having flashbacks to his early childhood arousal. He had repressed his memories of his sexual desire for his father, but this serendipitous encounter had awakened them anew. The combined man scent and the gaze of his suds-covered father was irresistible. He stood there, massaging his engorged cock over his shorts, sniffing and watching, only for a minute when the sound of the water ceased.
"CALVIN! Where are those clothes?" his mother shouted.
"I'm coming," Calvin shouted in reply. He shoved his father's jock strap in his pocket and set off downstairs, wobbling slowly, praying his erection would go away.
***
At the dinner table, Calvin sat across from his father, as he had for his whole life. But tonight, rather than engage his parents in conversation, he kept his eyes on his food, engrossed in his the consuming shame at his attraction to his father.
"Just you and me this weekend, bud. Your mother is off on her girls' trip," his father growled, trying to break the silence that had become familiar with their teenage son.
Calvin nodded.
"What time do you leave, honey?"
"Bright and early tomorrow, I probably won't see this sleepyhead."
