My Life as a Gay Man: Terry and Jack

My Life as A Gay Man: Terry and Jack

I never planned to be a Daddy. Hell, the first time a guy called me one in the bar, I was ready to walk in the middle of traffic. Did I choose the wrong shade of Just for Men? Should I have stopped putting off those botox shots?

And as I told you, I eventually went for those botox shots, and my testosterone pellets were a great libido booster, but I think they only enhanced my Daddy persona further.

Maybe because confidence in yourself is half the game.

Over the years, I’ve had many boys, but only two “sons” have stood out as happy memories. No ten minute wonders, but guys I could fall for – and who apparently fell for me.

Terry, 42, who I encountered on Bear411 one summer while I was at my vacation home in Pennsylvania, lives in Jacksonville and our first game plan was to find a middle of the road point on Florida’s East Coast and rendezvous sometime in the fall. But since I passed through Jax on my way home from PA to my home in Lauderdale, I asked if it might be possible to see him then. He agreed with open arms, offering to put me up for the night.

It was instant chemistry. My height, lightly furry, Italian, bearded, nice compact body, with boyish looks that belied his age, a stable, steady-as-you-go demeanor and a quiet, understated masculinity. Before we could finish our conversation about the golden oak furniture we both collected, we were in his secluded backyard hot tub and the rest as they say is for the history books. Or my next gay novel. His PA was a particularly nice surprise. But his fuzzy manly back and butt were to die for for this Dad and we got into the Father/Son act even before we hit the bedroom.

A few weeks later he came down and spent a weekend at my place, and while he was the curious tourist and loved hitting our gay beaches and the bars (apparently the Jax scene is tame by comparison), we went at it for six hours straight on his first day and got into a few more “training sessions” where “Papa,” as he called me, promised to make him a man before the weekend was done. A generation my junior, he applauded me for my stamina.

We even played Truck Stop Buddies where he was my rebel boy, both of us in baseball caps and work boots and nothing else, him spread eagle on the bed, that manly furry butt all mine.

Then there’s my other “son,” Jack, 36, half a country away who, like Terry, I met on Bear411, this time when I was planning a long weekend in Chicago. While he was very receptive when we chatted on line, he sounded somewhat hesitant when I called him on my arrival to see if our meeting would become real, and even when we met at the coffee shop across the street from my guesthouse on Halsted (he lived 40 minutes away in the rural burbs). As we strolled over to a Middle Eastern café a few blocks away and had a quick dinner, I still wasn’t sure if our conversation about politics and The Life was just a form of delay tactics before he told me nicely that it wasn’t going to work out.

Back in my guesthouse room, however, everything changed as he teasingly pawed all over me telling me that I was the fantasy Dad of his coming out days. At 5-9, he actually got turned on by mature guys shorter than himself and had had a bodybuilder dad for thirteen years before the guy died of liver failure in his thirties, tragically the result of years of juicing up on steroids.

Jack owed his husky build and luxurious black body hair to his dynamic combo of ancestry – Italian, Greek and Egyptian – and he sported elaborate tats on his chest, back and legs that only added to his boyish mystique. We spent that Friday night together and that Sunday afternoon, the day before I was return to Lauderdale, Jack eager to hear what the leather scene had been back in the eighties and nineties, a time I sensed he wished he had been a part of now, in these waning days of the leather scene in America. We parted with his invite for me to be his Dad at next year’s IML event held in Chicago each Memorial Day.

But you know what excited me most about my two boys? Surprisingly, their maturity. After encountering so much shit back in Lauderdale where I run into fifty year old party boys with absolutely nothing, Terry and Jack were breaths of fresh air. Terry had a solid job at a top communications firm, owned his own home and had just purchased a four unit apartment house in downtown Jax which he was renovating almost totally on his own for use as an income property. Jack had built his log cabin in the sticks on which he had almost paid off the mortgage, had no credit card debt, and was moving up to a new, better paying job in bank finance.

I saw Terry one more time a few years later on my trip up from Lauderdale to PA, but while he still remained his boyish self, he had begun to develop a middle age pouch and was less interested in catching up on things than on getting my dick up his butt.

As for Jack, I has lost his screen name on bear411and tried finding it to take him up on his offer to accompany him at that May’s IML. But even after combing through the hundreds of listings three times, it seemed as if he had disappeared.

Then last fall, he reached out to me on Scruff, a few years older but hotter than ever. He had been surfing when he came across my profile. “I’ll never forget my Daddy,” he replied, but when I invited him, still unattached, to spend the upcoming Thanksgiving weekend with me in Florida,he said he’d think about it.  But nothing came of my offer.

I guess you can’t go home again.

Even when it comes to your boys.

Monday: Tim and Tom, two furry fist fuckee brothers