My name is Brian. I lived on the south side with my parents. It was a working class neighborhood full of modestly kept bungalows and older frame two-flats, empty lots where packs of children played, local mom-and-pop groceries, and taverns, some light industries to keep the locals employed. My parents owned one of those little bungalows and it took every cent they could scrape together to get it and hold on to it. Money was hard to come by and savings where practically nonexistent. We lived paycheck to paycheck for as far back as I can remember. College wasn't something that was on the radar for me and most of my friends. The best we could hope for was a solid job at one of the local factories. If someone garnered a job with the city, or on the docks, or better still got a union job – better wages and better benefits – that person was looked upon as being upwardly mobile. I had part-time jobs all through high school and the day after graduation, I started a full-time job at a local canning plant. Prospects were slim.
My father worked as a laborer in construction – the lowest position you could have. He was pushing 65 years old at the time but had to pull the workload of a young man. Retirement was something that he never talked about since, due to finances, it was unlikely he'd be able to rest his bones after a long life of hard work. He'd been breaking his back since the age of 10, first as a farm hand, then in the quarries, on factory lines, or any other labor job an under-educated man could be lucky enough to land. He was ruggedly handsome and a bit of a rake, but despite his sometimes wild nature, I think that's what my mother found attractive about him – at least when they were younger, not so much anymore. That, and the fact that he was a hard worker, probably gave her the idea that they could cobble a life together. My mother was a European beauty. High cheek bones, straight back, broad hips, proud bosom, and outstanding legs made her a real looker. One quickly understood why my father was attracted to her. Although she was a good mother, she was always rough on the old man – a ball-buster deluxe.
As the years went by, mounting financial pressures, and my mother's constant nagging and verbal abuse drove my father deeper and deeper into the only refuge he could find – the whiskey bottle. And the deeper he descended, the more my mother resented him and beset him with her hellish furry. Their loud, heated arguments were legendary throughout the neighborhood. I don't mean to imply that my father was a wimp – he could give as well as get – but their arguments often ended with my dad storming out of the house and heading for the tavern. I can't remember a time when they shared the same bed, or the same bedroom, and any signs of affection, even in the brief moments of détente, were fairly nonexistent. They merely existed together loosely held together by a marriage contract forged a long time ago and a mortgage they could barely afford.
My dad was far from being exemplary by any standards but I loved him, and I felt pity for his circumstances, and helpless to improve his lot. Until one particular Friday night, pay day. My friends and I had gone to the local hangouts to do a little drinking and perhaps pick up some willing femmes but as it turned out there wasn't much action afoot. The boring conversations and lack of females couldn't hold my attention for long and I was rather tired from a tough week at the plant. I'd decided to head home and maybe watch a little late night TV before crashing for the night.
When I entered the house everything was perfectly still. The only light a dim glow coming from my father's room. Apparently my mother had already gone to bed and turned out all the lights. Since it was pay day I assumed my father had made the rounds of the local watering holes and had stumbled in for the night. By intent, my parent's rooms were at opposite ends of the house. This made it convenient for my dad to slip into the house without having to encounter my mother's 'gauntlet of fury' whenever he came home drunk. I stepped quietly down the hall towards his room to see if he was OK and maybe have a word with him if he was awake.
I quietly poked my head around the door sill and whispered, "Hey, Pop, you up?" I received no reply. I heard only the soft snoring of another, well earned, pay day, whiskey-induced slumber. I turned myself fully into the doorway of his room and saw that he had his bedside lamp on. His clothes were in a rumpled pile next to the bed, and dad was sleeping above to covers completely naked. He was laying on his side, facing the bedroom door, softly snoring and intermittently mumbling in his comatose-like sleep. Apparently he had stumbled in with enough energy to strip out of his clothes but didn't have the gusto left to get into his pajamas.
My dad had a build similar to the wrestler Dick the Bruiser, thick and stocky, powerful. He had a barrel chest, powerful legs, and upper arms of substantial beef. Looking at his nakedness, I could see that his frame was mostly hairless and even his scrotum had only a faint tuft of fine hair. Warmly tanned and somewhat weather worn, yet quite smooth and robust, looking at him like this, I thought that he actually looked beautiful. I don't recall ever seeing my dad fully naked before, but the thing that really drew my attention was that even though he was out cold, my dad was sporting a big, thick, meaty hard-on. I was kind of shocked at how fat that man's dick really was. I was very much average sized in the cock department, nothing distinctive about what hung between my legs. My dad, on the other hand, had something that a man could be truly proud of.
