The Father Son Story You’ve Never Heard (I Hope)
By Jeffrey A. Boyer
I start the evening sitting at my favorite bar sucking down beers to numb myself from the recurring verbal abuse from my father. The overly testosterone ridden macho son of a bitch never resisted any moment to question my manhood. His favorite tongue-lashings include the advice to “man up”, go “balls out”, or “go find some strange”. My personal favorite is the ever classic “be good, but if you can’t be good then name the kid after me”.
His definition of manhood erects from the number of sexual conquests a man can claim. If you can count the number of women slept with on your fingers and toes then you are deficient in your manhood both literally and figuratively. Under 10 and you’re still a virgin. Under 20 makes you a nice guy. My father mocks nice guys. Under 30 means you’re a wuss. My father hates a wuss. My father considers me a wussy nice guy virgin.
His number is 96. No, sorry. It’s 97 as of last week. It’s hard to believe that 97 different women would consent to bumping uglies with this guy. Women always say they want a nice guy, yet my dad scored with 97 different women. 97!
Just once, I wish I could muster the nerve to ask him how many of those 97 conquests ever asked for seconds. That might melt his macho facade. Well, I suppose my mother was one of those women who encountered him with a certain repetition. After all, I have two brothers, but perhaps she viewed sex as a wifely obligation rather than an inspired moment of passion. Gross. Why am I thinking about this? This is my mother.
It is true that I’ve been sexually involved with very few women, but most of those special moments with those special women occurred more than one time so take that dad. I want meaningful relationships, he wants meaningless sex. Sex is better with a loved one rather than from a love of sex. Women are not the personal dumping ground for your expelled fluids. Women are temples to be cherished, and loved, and romanced, and equal partners in matters of personal spillage. What my dad does is no more than masturbation with a real woman rather than a worn out sock. Sock sex is what he does. Old wrinkly worn out live sock sex.
At this moment I hear a clinking sound followed by the sensation of cold liquid lubricating my shirt. Immediately there is an apology in the air, an arm around my shoulder, something soft pressing into the side of my face, with another arm reaching across me wiping up the discharged liquid.
All I see is red. The red of a skintight dress forming around perfect breasts. That red dress ending at a thong line. Those perfectly firm thighs leading to diamond cutting calves. Two words flash in my mind: eye contact. What eyes they are; a deep green pool of sensual luminosity.
A small part of me wishes that drink had spilled in my lap. Beside me is the most gorgeous woman I ever encountered. Where I was completely alone in my thoughts with only guy bartenders to serve me, now, there she is.
It takes only a few minutes of conversation for me to discover she is a wonderful blend of liberated and traditional woman who seems to know all the angles. She can follow a conversation or lead it. A confident woman who doesn’t need a man to support her in everyday life but supports the man she loves every time. The kind of woman who will feed you chicken soup when you don’t feel well then give you a blowjob to make you feel better. Of course, her exotic dark hair, hypnotizing green eyes, and the toned, perfect body doesn’t hurt. I’m fairly certain she could rub out any guy’s political persuasion.
In no time at all, she is inviting me to her motel room. The short walk from the bar to her motel convinces me that our earlier discussion was the chicken soup leading to me feeling so much better. Her grabbing my ass and boxing my tonsils with her tongue is a pretty good sign as well.
To be continued …
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