Chapter 1: Paul's Perverse Advice
Shane shifted his weight from one work boot to the other, the frayed laces scratching against the concrete step. He knocked again, the sound swallowed by the thick, weathered door of Paul’s apartment building. He felt out of place, a mountain of flannel and denim in a hallway that smelled like old incense and microwave popcorn. The door swung inward.
“Shane! Get in here, you gorgeous oak tree.”
Paul stood framed in the doorway, a vision of deliberate decay. He was a lean man in his early fifties, all sinew and sharp angles, with a pencil-thin mustache that seemed to curl with its own private joke. His hair, slicked back with something that gleamed, was a shade of black not found in nature. He wore nothing but a short, royal blue silk bathrobe, tied loosely at the waist. It gaped open to reveal a thatch of grey chest hair and the sharp lines of his hips, the hem stopping high on his thighs. His skin had a sallow, nicotine-stained quality, like old parchment.
“Hey, Paul,” Shane rumbled, his voice a soft bass. “Thanks for seeing me.” His earnest face, wide and handsome with the gentle lines of a man who smiled easily, was etched with a quiet worry.
“For family? Always.”
Paul surged forward and wrapped his arms around Shane in a tight, deep hug. It was forceful. Paul’s face pressed directly into the solid wall of Shane’s chest, his nose and mouth mashing against the soft cotton of Shane’s work shirt. Shane stood there, accepting it, one big hand giving a few awkward pats to Paul’s bare, bony shoulder blade. He was used to hugs – site crew hugs, back-slapping and brief. This was different. Paul’s hands slid down the broad plane of Shane’s back, fingers splayed, and settled firmly on the substantial curves of his ass, giving a deliberate, appreciative squeeze. He inhaled deeply against Shane’s pectorals, a low hum vibrating against the bigger man’s sternum.
Shane froze for a second, a flicker of confusion in his warm brown eyes. But then Paul released him, stepping back with a wide, smirking smile, as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. He’s just affectionate, Shane reasoned, brushing off the strange touch as simple familial affection. Sarah’s brother had always been a little extra.
“Come in, come in. Office hours are now in session,” Paul said, sweeping his arm out with a flourish.
Shane ducked his head slightly as he stepped inside, and the atmosphere changed. The air was thick, warm, and layered—patchouli, stale cologne, whiskey, and something sweetly metallic underneath. The main room was a half-lit den. Deep red velvet drapes were splayed over grimy silk curtains, blocking most of the afternoon light. A single floor lamp with a frayed gold shade cast an amber glow, painting long shadows across a love seat upholstered in cracked, oil-stained leather.
Shane’s eyes wandered the walls. They were covered in frames. Within them, photographs and paintings depicted muscular men in various states of undress and entanglement, graphic and unapologetic. One particularly large print showed a chiaroscuro study of two interwoven figures, every muscle and straining tendon rendered in stark detail.
“You, uh, you really got into art, huh?” Shane said, nodding slowly, his gaze lingering on the artistic nudity with a kind of polite, confused detachment. He scratched the back of his neck. “Very… detailed.”
“Life drawing,” Paul purred, pouring a generous finger of amber liquid into a tumbler. He didn’t offer Shane one. “It’s about the human form. Truth. Desire.” He took a sip, his eyes watching Shane over the rim. “So. Ryan. My fabulous nephew. He came out. This is magnificent news.”
Shane’s face lit up, the worry melting into pure, paternal pride. “Yeah. Yeah, he did. Last week. Just said, ‘Dad, I’m gay,’ over meatloaf.” He shook his head, a wondrous smile on his face. “I told him I loved him, and that was that. But now… I don’t know what to do, Paul. I want to be supportive. I just don’t know how.”
Paul gestured for Shane to sit on the leather couch. Shane lowered himself carefully, the old material creaking in protest under his solid weight. Paul perched on the edge of a cluttered coffee table, leaning forward, his robe falling open further. The knowing smirk never left his face.
“What you did was step one. Perfect. But, Shane… step two is where most straight fathers fail. Miserably.” Paul’s voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “They offer love, but they don’t offer understanding. They create a distance. A silence. That silence is where shame grows.”
“I don’t want that,” Shane said immediately, his big hands curling into earnest fists on his knees. “Never.”
“I know you don’t, you beautiful bear. Which is why you came to me.” Paul set his glass down on a stack of Playgirl magazines. “Ryan is entering a world you know nothing about. A world of… particular needs. Particular curiosities. He needs a role model. A guide.”
“Well, that’s you, right?” Shane said, hopeful.
Paul laughed, a dry, crackling sound. “I’m the fun uncle, Shane. Your his dad. The primary paternal influence. The rock. And right now, Ryan’s world is made of questions you can’t answer. About desire. About identity. About… mechanics.”
Paul leaned in. “Straight culture tiptoes. It hides sexuality under layers of… dinner dates and church socials and asking a father’s permission. Gay culture,” he said, gesturing around the room, “is a lot more upfront and unashamed. When you remove women from the situation, male sexuality becomes free to exist in its purest form. Intense. Ever-present. It’s in the open air, Shane. It’s in how we talk, how we dress, how we look at each other on the damn street.”
Shane listened, his brow furrowed in deep concentration, as if trying to memorize a complex building code. “Okay. So, it’s… more?”
“It’s everything. It’s not a part of life, it’s the current that life runs on.” Paul stood up in a fluid motion, his robe swirling. He fetched a thick, faux-leather photo album from a shelf cluttered with dusty trophies and novelty ashtrays. He dropped it onto the coffee table with a thump, sending up a small cloud of dust. “Look. This is living. Truly living.”
He opened the album. The pictures were a riot of color and flesh. Here was Paul, decades younger but with the same mustache, wearing nothing but neon-green shorts and a sheen of sweat, crushed between two grinning, shirtless men under pulsing lights. “Circuit party. San Francisco, ’99.” Another page: Paul and a group of friends on a beach, their bodies a spectrum of tones, wearing nothing but minuscule thongs that left nothing to the imagination. “Black Sea retreat."
"This is the freedom, Shane. To just be in your body, without apology.”
Shane’s eyes widened. He didn’t look away, but a slow blush crept up from his neck. He saw the joy in the faces, the lack of self-consciousness. It was a world away from backyard barbecues and company softball games. “They look… happy,” he admitted, his voice soft.
“They are! Because they’re not hiding. They’re empowered. Now,” Paul said, snapping the album shut. “Do you want Ryan to have that? To live a gay life to the absolute fullest? To walk into any room, any beach, any party, and own his space with every ounce of who he is?”
“Yes,” Shane said instantly, the word bursting from him. “Of course I do.”
“Then you need to help him become comfortable with it. With his body. With his sexuality. So he’ll feel empowered to reveal those things to other gay men. He needs to practice that comfort at home. With someone he utterly trusts.” Paul let the words hang in the patchouli-thick air. His eyes locked onto Shane’s. “That’s you. You’re the safe space. But a safe space can’t be a silent, ignorant space. It has to be an active space. A living, breathing tutorial.”
“A tutorial?” Shane repeated, the word feeling foreign and heavy in his mouth.
“Exactly.” Paul’s eyes glittered in the lamplight. He leaned back, spreading his arms along the back of the couch, the silk of his robe whispering. “Look, Shane. This isn’t about teaching him to throw a baseball. This is about teaching him to inhabit his own skin without shame. That’s called self-actualization. And you can’t just tell him it’s okay. You have to show him. You have to model the behavior.”
Shane nodded slowly, trying to keep up. “Model it.”
“From the ground up. Starting with how a confident gay man presents himself.” Paul’s gaze swept over Shane’s bulky frame, his flannel shirt and sturdy jeans. “You look like you’re about to chop wood. Which is a vibe, don’t get me wrong. But it’s a hiding vibe. Ryan needs to see that it’s not just okay, but powerful, for a man to want to be seen. To be… sexy.”
He let the word hang. Shane shifted, the leather creaking.
“So at home,” Paul continued, his voice dropping to a smooth, instructive tone, “the uniform changes. No more boxers. No more sweats. You start dressing in a way that celebrates the male form. Think thongs. Think showing off what you’ve got. It tells him, ‘This body is nothing to be ashamed of. It’s something to be proud of, to display if you want to.’ You’re giving him permission to explore that for himself.”
A flicker of deep discomfort passed behind Shane’s eyes. He pictured himself walking from the shower to his bedroom in just a thin strip of fabric. The image felt absurd, vulnerable. “I… I don’t know, Paul. Walking around like that in front of my kid?”
“It’s not ‘like that,’” Paul corrected, wagging a finger. “It’s about self-acceptance. You’re straight. There’s no sexual intent. Therefore, there’s no inappropriateness. It’s just a body. A fantastic one, by the way. Use it.”
Paul took a long sip of his drink, watching the confusion and resolve war on Shane’s face. “And it’s deeper than just looking pretty. There’s a whole hierarchy in the community. A stupid one. Guys who like to get fucked? They sometimes get treated like they’re lesser. Weak. It’s called bottom shaming. It’s toxic bullshit.”
Shane’s brow furrowed. “That’s not right.”
“No, it’s not. So you have to model that too. You have to show Ryan that every… preference… is valid. That wanting to be penetrated is as masculine and worthy as anything else.”
“How the hell do I model that?” Shane asked, a faint, bewildered laugh escaping him.
“By being open about your own self-pleasure. In the living room. On the couch. In the kitchen making a damn sandwich.” Paul’s words were casual, deliberate. “Sometimes, you stroke your cock. Normal, right? But sometimes, you use a toy on yourself. You show him that taking pleasure in that way is just another form of self-love. That assholes aren’t just for shit, they’re for joy. You dismantle the shame, Shane. Piece by piece.”
The room felt suddenly hotter, smaller. Shane’s palms were damp. He wiped them on his thighs. “Paul, that’s… he’d see me. That’s private.”
“Privacy is a straight construct for breeding. For gay men, sexuality is communal. It’s shared. It’s how we bond.” Paul leaned forward again, his expression intensifying. “Which brings me to the most important part. Total access. If Ryan is going to learn to navigate these waters—and they are rough, Shane, full of horny sharks—he needs a safe harbor to practice in. That’s you.”
Shane’s blood went still. He heard the words, but their meaning seemed to lag behind, crashing into him in slow, awful waves.
“He needs to be able to explore his desires without fear of rejection or misunderstanding. With someone who loves him unconditionally. So your body isn’t just for display, or for your own demonstration. It’s a learning tool. He should be free to use it. To touch. To explore. To… practice.” Paul’s voice was utterly matter-of-fact, as if explaining how to change a tire. “Gay friendships are often sexual. It’s normal. It’s quick. It’s a handshake where you are. He needs to learn how to handle those transactions—the hookups, the friends-with-benefits, the casual circles where everyone’s had everyone. It’s a staple of the life. You can give him the foundation. You can be his first, best experience of intimacy without strings, without judgment. Just pure, supportive, instructional love.”
The silence that followed was thick enough to choke on. Shane stared at the stained rug, his mind a roaring static. Every instinct in him, every fiber of his being as a father, screamed that this was wrong. It was a line so dark and deep he never imagined it existed.
“I…” he started, his voice gravel. “That feels… inappropriate. Really inappropriate, Paul.”
Paul sighed, a performative sound of patience strained. He reached out and put a bony hand on Shane’s colossal forearm, squeezing the firm muscle. “Shane. Listen to me. It feels that way to you because you’re seeing it through a straight lens. Through a taboo lens. I’m asking you to see it through a lens of love. Of support. You are straight. There is no sexual attraction on your part. Therefore, it is not inappropriate. It is pedagogical. It is the ultimate act of paternal sacrifice. You’d take a bullet for him, right?”
“In a heartbeat,” Shane whispered, the answer automatic, torn from his core.
“This is just a different kind of bullet. A social one. An emotional one. You’re letting your body be a shield for his psyche.” Paul’s grip tightened. “Think about Ryan. Really think. That sweet boy. All alone in this. The world can be cruel. You have the power to build him an armor of confidence from the inside out. Why would you withhold that? Because you’re squeamish? Because of some outdated notion of what’s ‘proper’? Proper let’s gay kids die alone and ashamed, Shane.”
Shane closed his eyes. He thought of Ryan at thirteen, teaching him to shave, his small hands clumsy with the razor. He thought of him last week, over meatloaf, his voice trembling but so brave. I’m gay, Dad. He thought of the pure, overwhelming love that had flooded him then, a love so vast it ached. He’d do anything. Anything.
He’d get into a fight for his son. He’d work triple shifts for his son. He’d bleed, he’d beg, he’d break his own back.
So why was this so hard?
Because it’s your body, a small, sane voice hissed. Because it’s a violation.
But what if Paul is right? another voice, louder, argued. What if your hangups are the very walls that will cage Ryan? What if your love has to be this big, this fearless, to be enough?
Paul saw the struggle. He released Shane’s arm and stood up, padding across the room to a cluttered closet. He rummaged inside and returned with a large, glossy shopping bag from a store Shane didn’t recognize. He set it on the coffee table with a soft thump. Then he bent down and retrieved a sleek, unmarked black box from beneath the table, placing it beside the bag.
“Here,” Paul said, his voice now gentle, almost reverent. “The tools for the job.”
Shane looked at the offerings. The bag’s contents seemed soft. The box looked dense, ominous.
“Open it,” Paul urged softly.
With hands that felt numb, Shane first peered into the shopping bag. Inside was a swirl of fabrics in shocking colors—neon green, electric blue, deep burgundy, black lace. He pinched the edge of one garment and lifted it. It was a thong, a tiny, intricate constellation of straps and triangles. It looked like it would barely contain him.
Next, he lifted the lid of the black box. Inside, nestled in molded foam, were sex toys. Sleek silicone in various sizes and shades. A thick, veined dildo. A series of graduated plugs with flared bases. A bottle of clear lubricant.
He stared at them. Objects from another planet. Tools from Paul’s world. The world he was supposed to guide Ryan into.
His vision blurred slightly. He saw Sarah’s face, her smile. Take care of our boy, she’d said. Was this taking care? This felt like falling into an abyss.
But Paul was here. Paul knew this world. Paul loved Ryan too.
“It’s a lot,” Paul murmured, sitting beside him again, his thigh pressing against Shane’s. “I know. But love isn’t always easy, Shane. The purest love is often the hardest. It asks everything of you.”
Shane took a deep, shuddering breath. The scents of the apartment—the patchouli, the leather, the metallic tang—filled his lungs. He looked from the garish fabrics to the impersonal silicone, and then into Paul’s eager, knowing eyes.
He thought of his son.
Slowly, haltingly, he nodded.