Hot Daddies

The chandelier in the foyer was still swinging in the wake of Penny’s furious departure when Steve decided to go to the bookstore. He looked down at his hands, still shaking from the fight-induced adrenaline, and mentally counted back in time. How long had it been? Four years? No, longer than that. Had it been five?

He sat on the sofa, letting the urgency build until it propelled him in the direction of his shoes. He slipped his feet into his Nikes and walked over to the hall mirror. He was lean from running, but his severe eyes and close-cropped, conservative beard played tricks on his eyes. Most of the time he liked the beard, thought it made him look roguish and rebellious, but tonight when he looked into the scratched antique glass, his father’s stern visage stared back at him.

He considered going upstairs to shave; he considered kicking his Nikes back into the closet, maybe sinking into a whiskey sour and watching the Rays with his feet up on the coffee table.

Indecision made him shift from his right foot to his left.

Five goddamn years. It had been five, not four.

He pushed his left toe against the back of his right shoe, testing his resolve.

He glanced back into the mirror; a blond forelock dropped in front of his steely blue eyes and his father was gone. His face was handsome and still, timeless as the frozen photograph of an aging movie star.

He blinked.

Go, go, go. Just go.

He hurried out to his car.

As he backed his old Mercedes out of the driveway, he waved to Mrs. Alexander, who was pruning the azalea bushes that separated their yards. She waved back, flashing an inquisitive smile that made Steve snarl with annoyance. Her pursed lips and tightly knitted brow told him she was making note of his rapid departure. She glanced at her watch and her smile grew broader. He grimaced, knew she would hold this little nugget of information close, clutching it to her venomous breast until she could release it into the credulous hands of his wife, perhaps over iced tea or lemonade or homemade lemon squares, served on her verandah under ceiling fans that stirred hot air redolent with smiles and floral perfume and pettiness.

And Penny would accept the proffered clue like she had accepted all the others, goaded by the old woman’s cool, papery whisper, to construct an angry, fractious narrative that cast Steve as the adulterous villain. “Maybe he’s involved with that pretty colored girl who works for him,” she’d whisper. “You know a man doesn’t keep himself looking that fine for the woman he marries.” And Penny would sit on Mrs. Alexander’s porch for hours, rocking in the straight-backed rocker, with a hard, empty look in her eyes.

But Steve had stopped everything when they’d married, stopped the cruising and the meet-ups, stopped the men on the side, and it had been five years since he’d done more than look. So he was condemned for keeping himself in shape; for plodding through year after year in an unhappy marriage; for keeping his marriage vow despite the desire that threatened to engulf him.

Tonight when she got back from her tantrum, Penny would turn to the old woman for hand-patting pity, offered with barely concealed relish, and they would scowl at him from their rockers. Penny would stop talking to him and lock him out of his own bedroom. And he would fall asleep in the study in front of the television watching old reruns of “Will & Grace” and feeling sorry for himself.

Five goddamn years.

Just go, Steve.

His eyes were hot and wet as he turned the corner, leaving Mrs. Alexander behind, opening the sunroof and flooring the accelerator.

Dusk was settling over the town and the streets were waking sporadically, neon signs flickering to life here and there while others remained dark in the overheated half-light. Steve turned up the air-conditioning and rubbed his hands across his bare thighs, his stomach tightening as he turned onto Vanderbilt. He pulled in behind the store and parked close to the building, pulling his car in tightly between an old Volvo and a Jeep.

He took a deep breath, ran his fingers through his hair and looked in the flip-down visor mirror, trying to remember what it had been like to be beautiful and young. Time had passed so quickly. He barely recognized the image in the mirror. The sharpness had diffused from his once-angular features. His face had filled out, becoming rounder and less precise, like a stone worn smooth by a waterfall. The vision of his father peering out from beneath his close-cropped beard in the hall mirror had ruined the look for him forever; he would shave when he got home. And his eyes: when had they started to sag around the edges, their color fading from glowing sapphire to steely bluegray?

Fuck it. He knew he was still attractive, even if the comments were qualified now, as if his attractiveness, once a broad and ungovernable thing, had been corralled by time, confined to the back pasture with the goats and the geldings. He’d heard people say it behind his back. “Great for his age,” they said, and “hardly looks like he’s in his forties.” He’d turned forty in May, for Christ’s sake. True, he’d heard “hot for his age” once, from Wendy, the grad student who was sleeping with his department chair, and he’d tried to take the comments as compliments, but they dug at him like a dozen rose thorns embedded in his palms. He cringed when they said it, especially the interns and the newest crop of MBAs with their expensive cars, family money, and wind-blown, male-model faces.

And then yesterday, as he’d rounded the corner and walked into the conference room, he’d heard Kevin’s lush tenor voice saying, “I’d be all up in that daddy’s business if he—” Steve looked up into the startled, blushing faces of Kevin, Aya and the Indian kid whose name he didn’t know. The four of them stood in a silent standoff for an awkward moment before Aya and the Indian kid made some excuse to slink from the room. Kevin laid a hand on Steve’s arm and started to say something, but other people arrived for the meeting and the moment was washed away in a sea of agendas and budgets and spreadsheets.

Steve brooded through the meeting, his eyebrows knitted over dark, stormy eyes.

He’d heard the compliment in the word; seen the lascivious fire dancing in Kevin’s eyes; felt the heat of his fingertips. But the narrative shift bothered him. He had been a beautiful boy and he had prided himself on the ease with which he had carried that beauty through his twenties and thirties. He’d always traded on his looks for whatever he wanted, including favors from dozens of men over the years; dozens of furtive, cruisy encounters in bathrooms and parks and gym showers, or nameless blow-andgo’s arranged online.

Daddy? Really? Five goddamn years out of the game and suddenly the rules shift? What the fuck?

He shook his head and slid the cover across the visor mirror. He would not think about this now. It was pointless to dwell on the shift while the clock was ticking. Penny would be home by nine, so he had less than two hours to make something happen.

He broke a sweat in the ten yards to the door of the bookstore.

He tugged on the door, the bells mounted on the inside jangling to announce his arrival. A dozen pairs of eyes flicked in his direction, some dropping away, others watching with interest as he hopped down the four steps to the main floor.

He knew his calves looked good coming down the steps; he allowed himself a little grin and felt better about his prospects.

Steve did a quick survey of the room: two young ones laughing and vamping beside the movie magazines; an old guy over by the adult magazines; five—no, six muscled, cotton-clad jocks; a pair of gawky med students drinking coffee and leaning close over a small café table in the front window; three or four boys barely out of high school; a pretty, waifish emo in an Edward Gorey T-shirt; a peppering of older guys reading Martha Stewart Living or Cat Fancy or John Sandford. He circled for a moment, glanced at his watch, and then noticed a dark-haired young man intently reading a paperback mystery. He stood with his right foot resting on his left, balanced in an absent, improbable stance, absorbed in the words on the page in front of him. He seemed oblivious to the attention that eddied around him, oblivious to his own disheveled beauty. Steve stopped and stared appraisingly at the boy’s long, muscular body, pale skin, and lustrous hair. The boy looked up as he turned a page, dark eyes focusing for a moment on Steve. He looked startled and then he smiled. Steve was suddenly uncharacteristically bashful, looking down pathetically at the shelves in front of him, picking up a biography of Idi Amin and feigning interest in the grainy cover photo. He flipped the book over, catching a glimpse of the boy, who was still watching Steve with a look that was both sly and serene. Steve pantomimed an interest in the back cover of the book in his hands, running his eyes pointlessly across the rows of letters and spaces. His mouth dried up like a summer lakebed.

Normally Steve liked this moment: the moment of discovery, the moment he stepped into a secluded clearing to confront a dappled deer. In that moment he was neither predator nor prey. He was one of two beasts sniffing the wind to confirm the possibility of desire. Sometimes the richness of the moment led to something heart-racingly crazy. And sometimes the moment passed unnoticed by the deer, and Steve moved on.

Tonight Steve was edgy, clumsy from lack of practice. Damp leaves brushed against his cheeks as he raised his head from the book in his hands and stepped into the clearing, locking eyes with the boy. Steve’s desire rested at the still point of the pursuit, waiting patiently for the next thing to happen, waiting for the moment of recognition or dismissal.

But the boy gave neither.

They stood frozen in place.

The room stirred around them; men shifting, pacing and watching.

And the boy dropped his eyes back to his book, dark eyebrows furrowed in concentration, turning the page with long, pale fingers.

Steve felt weightless and disoriented.

One of the others stepped into their clearing. A middle-aged man in baggy running shorts and a T-shirt walked down the aisle toward the dark-haired beauty, and then stopped next to him, kneeling to tie and retie his shoe, glancing pointedly, questioningly at the boy’s crotch. The boy remained frozen, his eyes roving from side to side down the page of the novel in his hands. The predator rose to his feet, brushed past the boy, closer than he needed to, and ambled back toward the café. Steve watched him go and then turned back to the boy, who smiled, just the barest twitch of muscle beneath pale skin, but Steve saw it and his pulse beat faster in response.

Steve heard a nervous cough behind him. He turned slowly, swiveling to find himself confronted by the coolly expectant eyes of a balding man in brown slacks. The old man waggled his wooly eyebrows and flicked his eyes downward. Steve looked at the man’s hands: shoved deep in the pockets of his pants, they stretched the fabric tight over a long, thin erection. Steve looked up into the man’s pale, muddy eyes and raised his right eyebrow.

The aging predator misread the signal and took a step closer to Steve. He reached out and brushed his bare knuckles along Steve’s muscular thigh, his breathing growing heavier.

Steve shifted his weight away and whispered, “Beat it, man.”

How close am I to this? Steve fingers trembled.

He turned back to look at the boy, who still held the book in his hands, but who had been watching Steve’s interaction with curious attention.

Steve winked. The boy grinned, shrugged—What’re ya gonna do?—and looked back down at his book.

Steve watched him without pretense now. He let his eyes move slowly across the even, bluish stubble that played across the boy’s jawline and upped his initial age estimate to twenty, maybe twenty-one. A permanent blush splashed across the boy’s cheeks, rising like the crest of a wave over the fine line of his jaw. His hair curled uncontrollably in broad waves that lapped gently against the back of his neck.

Steve watched the soft cotton of the boy’s shirt rising and falling with the steady rhythm of his breathing. There were thick muscled planes beneath the cotton, nipples that strained ever so slightly against cool restraint and a few silky chestnut hairs that crested the collar. The boy’s arms were smooth marble beneath a carpet of lightly curling hair that tapered as it approached his finely crafted hands. He had perfectly proportioned fingers, firm but delicate with closely clipped nails, and he wore a thick silver band with a pattern of interlocking circles.

Steve’s cock stirred inside his running shorts. He wished now he had worn underwear. His shirt hid his excitement for the moment, but he knew that by folding his hands across his chest, he could lift his shirt just enough to reveal his considerable assets. Although he had counted on a carefully orchestrated curtain call to finalize the delicate negotiations, now he felt self-conscious, fearing everyone in the store was aware of his growing erection. The image of the old predator’s brown slacks stretched across his long, thin erection flashed through Steve’s mind.

How close am I to becoming that? That guy is what? Ten years older than me? And I’m what? Twenty years older than this boy?

His hands started to tremble again. He reached out to pick up a book, hoping the solidity of the volume in his hand would somehow ground him.

Fuck that. I’m nothing like that guy.

“Excuse me, sir,” a voice said from behind him.

Steve turned aside to make room as a tall, handsome boy slipped past him and approached his quarry.

“Jason,”

“Oh, hey, Dave. S’up?” Soft lilting tones that rumbled with baritone fire.

Steve moved a few steps closer, picking up a biography of Disraeli and intently reading the first paragraph of the introduction. Over and over he read the lines, the words mingling with the conversation beside him, and the entire soaring jumble presided over by the single sound—Jason. Steve’s lips moved inadvertently and he looked up just as the two boys turned to look at him. He had spoken the word aloud. “Jason.” He blushed and muttered something about Disraeli, turning his gaze back between the pages and wondering if he should just flee into the night. Perhaps he should just go home and beat off in the shower. He set the book down and turned to go.

He walked the length of the aisle but, instead of turning left toward the door, he turned right and walked over to the adult magazines, pushing rather more roughly than he had intended past the man in brown, reaching up to pluck a copy of Stroke off the shelf. He felt the blush receding from his cheeks as he blocked the rest of the store out and buried himself in the warm folds of the magazine.

He flipped through the pages. No, no, no. He put the magazine back and pulled down another and then another and another. Nothing. Nothing. There was nothing there, nothing but skinny legs and vacant, drugged-out stares, or top-heavy, muscled porn gods, round and swollen like man-shaped water balloons.

He tossed the magazine back toward the shelves. It fluttered and flapped, falling and dragging half a dozen others to the floor. Faces turned in his direction and he felt his cheeks burning.

He leaned over to pick up the magazines, glancing back at Jason as he gathered the mess.

Steve could see the outline of the boy’s ass beneath the worn denim, round and perfect. He imagined grasping the damp cloth just below the small of Jason’s back and peeling it down over the ripe, round mounds. There would be heat and the sweetly acrid smell of sweat and Steve would drop to his knees and slide his hands along the twin mounds, fuzzy as peaches and taut under his palms. He would slide his fingertips close, delving into the crevice and then pulling the cheeks apart to reveal—

Fingers brushed along Steve’s arm as a man in tight jeans and a wifebeater pushed past him. Their eyes met and a beat of recognition passed between them. Steve saw the inside of a gas station restroom, a muscular form bent over the filthy toilet, Steve’s fingers curled through damp, dirty-blond hair, Steve fucking and grunting and coming into a pale blue condom. It was a flash of memory, like an image glimpsed from a speeding car window, and then the man was moving away, sauntering to the end of the aisle before turning and looking at Steve with a somber, acne-scarred face that looked at least a decade older than the one Steve remembered.

Steve tried to lick his lips, but his mouth was too dry.

His erection was throbbing painfully now. He was so parched and so choked with need he was having trouble swallowing. Need was now a physical force, swelling inside him, filtering up from his stomach and slicing like a deadly knife blade through the nipples that strained visibly beneath his tight shirt.

Sweat trickled down his back; the overhead fluorescents burned like halogens. He turned back toward Jason and this time their eyes met and held. Jason had been watching him, interest finally playing across his previously placid face. His eyebrow cocked and Steve gave him a half nod in response.

Jason turned to go and Steve slipped down the aisle to the back of the store. He heard the bells and then rounded the corner to see Jason pushing the back door outward. The boy glanced back once and then vanished into the humid night.

Outside in the darkness, Steve regained his composure.

He approached the boy and they talked for a few minutes about the heat and how quiet the campus was during the summer.

“I’m Steve, by the way.”

“Jason—”

“—I know.”

“—Oh, right.”

They stumbled over each other and then Jason laughed nervously.

“That was kinda creepy, you saying my name like that. It was like you were praying,” he said.

“Well, I was…um, I dunno, being stupid, I guess.”

“Not very articulate for a guy who’s reading a Disraeli biography.”

“No. No, you’re right. I guess I was just distracted.”

“Were you, now?”

“I was, indeed.”

Jason grinned, stepped back and leaned against the back of an old, boxy Volvo. His T-shirt rode up revealing a trail of crisp dark curls that rose from beneath the low-slung waistband of his jeans.

“Nice,” Steve said.

“It gets even better.” Jason’s voice was soft but deep, pitched to his audience with the precision of a stage actor.

“I bet it does.”

There was a long pause.

“I believe it’s your serve,” Jason said.

“I want to fuck you,” Steve said.

“Well, that kind of serve’ll win you the game every time, Steve.”

Steve’s office was old but large, with bookshelves, leather chairs, and a worn leather sofa that faced a huge antique desk. Jason looked around, switched on a Tiffany lamp on a side table and picked up a framed photo of Penny.

“Married?” he asked.

“Separated,” Steve said.

“She’s beautiful.”

“Yes.” Steve stood next to the edge of his desk watching the boy like a man who had invited a gazelle into his living room.

“You’re not separated,” Jason said, stepping closer to Steve.

“No.”

“But you’re unhappy.”

“Yes.”

“And yet you stay.”

“A guy makes a vow,” Steve said, looking away.

“A guy’s got a good heart,” Jason said.

Steve turned back and looked at him in silence; the hair on his arms stood on end.

“What?” he asked.

“Nothing. Sorry. I’m always bringing down the mood of the room,” Jason said. He touched Steve’s cheek, turning his face gently so that their eyes met again. “We don’t have to talk about the outside.”

Steve swallowed audibly and then blushed under the intensity of Jason’s silent gaze.

“I sound calm when I’m nervous. It’s annoying,” Jason said.

Steve let out a short snort of laughter.

Jason let his hand drop from Steve’s face and walked over to the sofa. He dropped onto the seat, sitting back with his arms draped along the tops of the cushions. His legs were spread wide at the knees with a nonchalance that brought Steve’s cock back to attention.

He could see the outline of Jason’s cock growing beneath the denim.

“How old are you, Jason?”

“Why?” He grinned. “You worried?”

“No, no. It’s not that, it’s just that…”

“Yeah, that’s what my dad said when I told him.”

“You seem older,” Steve said.

“You’re a charmer, Stevarino.”

“Preternaturally calm, insightful, articulate—”

“Trying to make up points now?”

“—beautiful.”

“Beautiful?” Jason looked embarrassed for the first time since they’d met.

“Beautiful.”

“I guess I don’t think of myself that way—”

“Oh, come on, Jason.”

“No, really. Beautiful doesn’t really resonate with me.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

Jason shrugged. “It’s more about attitude. I like a big, rugged older man: someone whose soul has a little heft; someone whose body has some thickness to it; someone who knows what he’s doing; someone who’s not afraid of himself.” There was a challenge in his eyes now. “Is that you, Steve?”

“That’s me.”

“So what’re you gonna do to me, Steve?”

“I’m gonna make you scream so loud, the security officers from the next building are gonna come running in here with their guns in their hands.”

“I like the sound of that.” Jason leaned back and rubbed his cock through his jeans.

Steve slipped off his running shoes and discarded his socks.

“Keep rubbing yourself,” Steve said.

The boy’s hand moved and his breathing became louder.

Steve dropped to his knees between Jason’s spread legs, taking Jason’s feet in his hands and easing off each of the loafers with a gentle tug. His hands explored the warm muscles of the boy’s feet, massaging the soles through the soft cotton. He peeled back the socks and held his left foot in his hands, running his fingers lightly along the instep, fingering the hair that curled along the bridge and delicately punctuated the toes. Jason leaned back into the cushions and let his arms fall loose at his sides.

Steve inhaled the exotic fragrance of Jason’s sweat, touching the tip of his tongue to the soft underside of the boy’s toes. Jason looked up in surprise, his foot jerking involuntarily. He laughed, whispered, “Ticklish,” and melted back into the cushions. Steve licked along the length of the boy’s sole, memorizing the ridged contours and the tangy taste of him.

Jason moaned softly, turning his head from side to side, but keeping his eyes closed.

Steve sat back on his heels, hearing the crackling pops in his joints as he stood.

Jason looked up at him with soft, curious eyes. His hand rubbed lazily along the length of his cock, tracing the contours through the denim as he watched Steve.

Steve reached down and grabbed the hem of his T-shirt, peeling it up across his firm belly and muscular chest and pulling it over his head. He tossed the shirt at Jason, who let it land with a muffled slap on his face. He inhaled deeply, groaning before he pulled the shirt from his eyes.

Steve stood in front of him in his loose cotton running shorts, tented by his rearing erection. Jason’s eyes scanned Steve from head to foot, taking him in with growing excitement. Steve let his own hands caress his chest, brushing his nipples and drawing Jason’s eyes to the marbled perfection of his forearms, his collarbone and his flat stomach. He rubbed the head of his cock through the soft cotton of his running shorts, which were damp now with sweat and precum.

“Come here, boy,” Steve said.

Jason sat forward on the couch.

“Take it out,” Steve said.

Jason reached out and grasped Steve by the hips. He leaned forward to cup his mouth around the hard, cloth-covered cock, blowing a gentle stream of superheated air through the cotton. Steve shuddered and took a half step forward.

Jason’s fingers curled around the waistband and slowly pulled Steve’s shorts to the floor. He helped Steve step out of them and stood, holding wet cotton to his face, inhaling the musk and moaning again. Steve’s cock twitched as he heard the sweat-soaked shorts drop to the floor beside them.

They faced each other, Steve completely naked, Jason barefoot in jeans and T-shirt. Steve looked into his dark eyes and then leaned in fast, kissing him roughly on the lips. Jason stepped into the kiss, pushing the front of his jeans against Steve’s cock, letting its damp head slide under the hem of his T-shirt where it finally made fiery contact with his stomach.

Jason reached around to cup Steve’s ass, pulling him closer, intensifying the kiss.

Steve reached for Jason’s T-shirt, pulling it roughly over his body, exposing the pale expanse of muscle perfectly bisected by a bushy trail of hair that began with the gentle valley between his pecs and descended below the waistband of his jeans. Steve ran his fingers along the furry length of the line, plunging down into the loose jeans, past the elastic of Jason’s jockeys to grasp his cock. It was thick and heavy and damp.

“Take off your jeans,” Steve said, reaching for the hard twin buds of Jason’s nipples and giving them an experimental twist. Jason groaned and squirmed, taking a step back and shoving his jeans and underwear to the floor. He stepped out of them, his long hairy legs finally exposed for Steve’s inspection, but before Steve could survey them, the boy threw himself back at Steve, pushing their bodies together and returning to the rough hungry kissing. Steve’s face burned under the onslaught of Jason’s stubbled face.

Their cocks slid against each other in a confluence of sweat and precum that escalated Jason’s excitement. Steve slipped his hand down Jason’s back, sliding it lightly across the boy’s beautiful ass. He felt the hairs rotating in their follicles, standing at attention under his gentle touch. Jason groaned in appreciation and pushed harder against Steve.

Steve let his hands enjoy the roundness and the downy softness of Jason’s ass, lingering in one of the twin dimples before his fingers led him into the warm crevice. His fingertips burned with the wet heat radiating off Jason’s skin as his middle fingertip touched the wrinkled pucker of skin that was his destination. He circled the pucker, getting a feel for the small, understated opening before sliding his already damp finger slowly through the muscular ring. Jason gasped, “Oh, god,” and then “Oh, god, yes.”

Steve pushed his finger farther inside, pushing up against supremely smooth flesh, gauging his progress by the tenor of Jason’s groans. He slid his finger back and forth and Jason started to rock, pistoning his body onto Steve’s finger.

“Do you want me to fuck you?” Steve whispered.

“Now,” Jason said through gritted teeth.

Steve grabbed him roughly by the upper arms and twisted him around to face the sofa, pushing him forward in a kneeling position. Jason leaned forward, bracing himself on the sofa back and pushing his ass backward and upward. Steve grabbed a condom and some lube and stepped up behind the boy. He thought of a joke his father used to tell about Irishmen and boots and stump-trained sheep. He pushed the thought away and rolled the condom on, slapping his cock against his hand to keep it hard. Really? Right now you’re gonna think about your asshole father? He pushed the thoughts away again, sliding his hand along the crack of Jason’s ass, looking at the dark, damp hairs that curled along both sides like exotic vines.

Instead of pushing into the boy, he knelt and pushed his face into the fragrant cleft, letting the smell overwhelm everything else. He licked across Jason’s asshole and watched the muscles contract and release.

“Come on, Daddy. Quit knocking and come inside.” Jason’s voice was low, gravelly with desire. “Fuck me,” he said again.

And Steve was on his feet, his hands grasping Jason as he slid his cock in with a single, long stroke. Jason let out a ragged, primordial sound that reverberated up from a wordless place deep inside him. Steve felt the hot internal grip of Jason’s body loosening and tightening, showing him the rhythm that would rock them both into oblivion.

He pulled back and slammed all the way in, pushing himself against Jason with the force of a battering ram. Another cry went up from Jason, something that ended in “Oh, god, yeah,” and led Steve to a faster, harder rhythm.

Steve pounded Jason’s ass, pouring five years of pent-up passion into the boy’s clenching body, letting himself disappear into the heat and motion until his mind was gone and his body was ringing like a bell. He grabbed Jason’s arms and pulled the boy’s body back until his slick back rubbed against Steve’s chest. He let his hands explore the elongated muscles of Jason’s chest and stomach, groaning in the boy’s ear and fucking him harder.

Jason was coaxing him on with his hands, pulling Steve against him, bruising Steve’s flesh with his need and taking the full force of his battering. Steve shoved Jason back down onto the sofa. The boy braced himself and moaned. Steve slammed forward like he was trying to cleave Jason in two, and then he could feel himself building to the final crescendo.

“You ready?” he asked.

“I’m ready, Daddy.”

Steve picked up the pace, his sweaty feet slipping on the wood floor as he slammed himself home. He wobbled, looked down for a split second to regain his balance and saw a penny on the floor beside his foot. He thought of his wife and faltered.

“Come on, Daddy. Bring it home,” Jason groaned.

Steve looked down at the boy’s long, muscular back; at his dark, curly hair damp with sweat and felt his power return. He pushed in and out and felt the exquisite strain in his legs, pushing him toward exhaustion. Jason looked over his shoulder and their eyes locked. Jason’s pupils were huge, nearly overwhelming the chocolate-brown irises. His eyes were so open and resolute that Steve let them pull him into the next age. He transformed in that instant, taking on a part he had forcefully resisted, transforming irrevocably from youth to middle age, from aging twink to youngish Daddy. He felt strong and hot and alive. He plunged his cock deep into the boy and let out a moan that became a shout, increasing in volume with each wild thrust. And Jason’s shout joined his until they were both making a deafening, wordless noise that pushed them past the breathless moment in which they spewed out their seed and collapsed.

And then there was silence.

And then, as they regained themselves, the silence was slowly repopulated by the sounds of their breathing, the ticking of the desk clock, the sounds of the street outside and the hum of the refrigerator in the corner.

They lay in a sweaty tangle on the sofa, Steve crumpled on top of Jason, both of them smeared with cum and lube and trickling sweat. Jason’s breathing was slow and rhythmic beneath him, his eyes closed and a tender smile etched on his beautiful features.

Steve looked at the pale boy whose body was entangled with his own and smiled.

When Jason left, Steve stayed behind. He mopped up the mess with his damp running shorts and changed into a clean pair, watching the natural light drain from his office, leaving everything long and shadowy and indistinct. He sat back in his chair with his bare feet propped on the desk and crossed at the ankle. He held the business card on which Jason had scrawled his email address and cell phone number, and smiled to himself.

When the light had faded completely, Steve tugged on his socks and shoes, clicked off the Tiffany lamp and left.

Distant heat lightning illuminated the dark, starless sky with silent flashes.

He walked slowly back to his car thinking about Jason, with his finely mounded ass, his startling directness, the hungry, open look in his eyes—and his lust for an older man. He thought about Penny, with her cold hands, her vague accusations and the hard, empty look in her eyes. He felt different somehow, like a longtime combatant who had finally negotiated a peace. And he smiled again.

When he got back to the car he found a neatly folded note on his windshield. When he unfolded it, a ring—the wide silver band with a pattern of interlocking circles—fell into his open palm. He stared at the ring and then read the note.

One man in his time plays many parts. Embrace the next age, Steve. Embrace your inner Daddy. Find strength in this ring and then pass it along to someone else who needs it. Jason.

When Steve turned into the driveway, his headlights panned across the length of Mrs. Alexander’s long covered porch. Beneath the trio of old wooden fans, Penny and Mrs. Alexander sat close together on a pair of straight-backed rocking chairs, drinking iced tea from tall sweating glasses. A plate stacked high with Mrs. Alexander’s signature lemon squares sat in accusatory silence on the small table between them.

Steve shut off the engine, locked the car and walked over to the edge of the yard.

“Good ev’ning, ladies,” he drawled.

The two women looked at him with small, angry eyes.

He stood with his hands on his hips, loose and unwilling to be troubled by the gathering storm. He tried again. “Mrs. Alexander, are those some of your amazing lemon squares I see there?”

They stared at him in shared silence.

“Who is she?” Penny asked.

“There is no she,” he said.

“There have always been shes, Steve. Dozens of them…since long before we got married.”

“Please don’t start this again, Penny. There has been nobody but you for five goddamned years—”

“You’ve got dried cum on your shirt,” Penny said. “Did that slut wipe her mouth on it after she went down on you?”

He looked down at the smeared galaxy of silvery speckles on the blue fabric of his shirt riding just above his right hip. He saw the ring on his finger, interlocking circles glinting in the porch light. He knew they had passed the point of no return. A new age was upon him.

“I want a divorce,” he said without looking up.