Chapter 2: New Day, New Dad
The morning sun sliced through the gap in Ryan’s blackout curtains, a guilty gold stripe across his eyes. He stirred, tangled in his sheets, the tail end of a warm dream evaporating. For a moment, in that hazy space between sleep and waking, the weight on the other side of the mattress felt real. The dip of the pillow, the imagined heat of another body. A handsome, faceless man, breathing softly beside him. Ryan smiled into his own pillow, the fantasy vivid and sweet. He could almost feel a strong arm thrown over his waist, the scratch of stubble against his neck. What would that be like? To turn over and see someone there. To not have coffee alone.
With a grunt, he pushed himself upright, running a hand through his short, perpetually messy brown hair. The dream-man vanished, leaving the quiet, solitary room. He swung his legs out and padded to the full-length mirror on his closet door.
He stood there in just his grey briefs, the morning light softening the edges of his reflection. He surveyed himself with a critical, hopeful eye. The scruffy beard he’d been cultivating was coming in decently, a dark shadow along his jaw. His body was leanly muscled—no gym-rat bulk like his dad, but the definition from working part-time at the garden center was there in his arms and across his stomach. A not insignificant amount of dark body hair spread across his chest, trailed down his navel, and covered his legs. He turned a little, flexing a bicep with a half-smile. Not bad. By any metric, really. He wasn’t a model, but he was… okay.
Now that he was out, properly out, to the only person that truly mattered, the world felt different. The fantasy in his bed could be a prelude. He could actually do something about it. Download an app. Go to a bar. Say yes to a date. The words “my boyfriend” floated in his head, thrilling and terrifying. The desire to connect with another man, to touch and be touched, was a deep, physical ache. It was complicated, though, by a knot of anxieties. Putting himself out there meant profiles and small talk and the inevitable rejections. It meant being truly, vulnerably confident in himself, not just in the privacy of his mirror.
He shrugged away from the reflection and went to his closet. His style was a comfortable, grungy uniform. He pulled on a pair of black jeans, worn soft at the knees and thighs, and selected a faded band t-shirt for a group he only vaguely liked but whose logo was cool. Over that went an unbuttoned flannel shirt, its cuffs frayed. He shoved his feet into scuffed combat boots, not bothering to tie them all the way. He looked like himself. He felt like himself.
Today felt like a beginning. He’d go downstairs, have breakfast with his dad, maybe joke about something stupid. Maybe he’d finally open that dating app on his phone while he ate his cereal. The normalcy of it, paired with this new, buzzing potential, was exhilarating.
He headed for the door, his bootlaces slapping softly against the floor. He could already smell the coffee brewing downstairs, the familiar scent of home. He took a deep breath, a little smile playing on his lips. Maybe today was the day he’d start looking for that handsome man in his bed. For now, he’d settle for his dad’s slightly burned toast and his unbearably earnest, loving support. That was more than enough to build a new chapter on.
He trotted down the stairs, the wooden steps creaking under his weight
The morning light through the kitchen window was soft, the kind that promised a normal, easy day. Ryan came down the stairs, the worn wood creaking under his feet, already smelling coffee and the sharp scent of frying bacon. He was thinking about his Political Science lecture, his mind a comfortable thousand miles from reality.
He rounded the corner into the kitchen.
And stopped.
His brain fizzed, then went utterly silent. The world narrowed to the space between the refrigerator and the stove.
His dad was at the stove, back to him, humming along to some classic rock song on the radio. An apron—the one with ‘Kiss the Cook’ across the back in puffy, faded letters—was tied around his waist. That was normal. The rest was not.
Below the apron’s hem were two powerful, tanned legs, thick with corded muscle from decades on construction sites. And between them, cradled by a flimsy triangle of shimmering black fabric so small it seemed like an afterthought, was his dad’s ass. It wasn’t just an ass. It was a monument. A massive, thick, perfectly rounded bubble butt, completely exposed except for that narrow band of fabric digging into the cleft. The morning light caught the sheen of sweat on the lower curve. Ryan’s eyes traced the lines of muscle, the familiar strength of his father, now framed and presented in a way that made his stomach drop. His father's ass was the exact kind of ass that Ryan had just jacked off to the other night.
The sizzle of bacon filled the silence. Shane flipped a pancake with a practiced wrist.
Ryan must have made a sound, a choked intake of breath, because Shane turned, his warm, earnest face breaking into a smile. “Morning, buddy! Almost done here. Hungry?”
The front of the apron was pristine. The thong, from this angle, was a scandalous outline against his dad’s bulging package, the black fabric doing nothing to hide the heavy shape beneath. Shane seemed utterly unaware, one hand on his hip, the other holding a spatula.
“Dad,” Ryan managed, his voice strangled. “What are you… what are you wearing?”
Shane looked down, as if noticing his own attire for the first time. “Oh! This?” He said it like Ryan had asked about a new brand of coffee. “It’s a thong.” He turned slightly, presenting his profile, and used the spatula to point. “See, the idea is it goes right up in the crack here, so it’s real freein’. And the front, it kinda cups and highlights your junk, you know? Shows it off. Makes everything look… presented.” Ryan felt heat flood his face, a sick, rolling wave of overwhelm. “I know what a thong is, Dad.” The words came out sharper than he intended. “Why. Why are you wearing one?”
Shane’s smile softened into something reassuring, paternal. He put the spatula down and turned fully, leaning back against the counter, his pose unconsciously amplifying the display. His expression was one of gentle explanation. “Well, buddy, I guess I just wanted to feel and look sexy, you know? That's a thing men can want, you know.” Shane said it with the same gentle conviction he used to explain how to change a tire. He leaned a little harder against the counter, the edge digging into the small of his back. “Seriously. I was thinking about it. For years, it’s just been work boots and denim, you know? Functional. But a man’s body… it’s not just for work. It’s okay to want to feel… I don’t know. Appealing. Erotic, even.”
The word erotic hung in the air between them, foreign and wrong coming from his father’s mouth. Ryan couldn’t move. His feet were bolted to the linoleum.
“See, it’s about confidence,” Shane continued, his brow furrowing slightly as he worked through the concept. He was preaching now, a missionary of absurdity. “If you feel sexy, you are sexy. It’s an attitude. And it starts with embracing what you’ve got.” To Ryan’s utter, stomach-dropping horror, Shane’s big, calloused hand—the hand that had fixed his bikes, patted his shoulder, held his mother’s—came down and casually palmed his own left buttock. He gave it a firm, deliberate squeeze, the muscular flesh yielding and then bouncing back. “You gotta own it. Like this. This is a good ass, right?”
Ryan’s jaw was clenched so tight his temples ached. A silent no screamed through every neuron.
Unfazed, Shane’s other hand moved to the front of the apron. He didn’t lift it, but pressed his fingers against the fabric, against the substantial swell of his crotch. He gave a little, casual jiggle, a shifting of weight that was horrifyingly explicit. The black fabric strained. “And up here, too. It’s about presentation. Not hiding, you know? Letting it all… be seen. Be appreciated. There’s no shame in it, Ryan. None at all.”
The smell of burning bacon cut through the patchouli-and-sweat reality of the kitchen. Shane didn’t seem to notice. His eyes were locked on Ryan’s, glowing with a sincere, loving desire for understanding.
Ryan’s mind fragmented. One part was screaming, a primal alarm. Another part, a treacherous, deep-down part he instantly hated, was cataloging the details: the powerful curve of his dad’s hip, the dense shadow of hair leading down from his navel, the way the thong framed a physique that was, objectively, incredibly hot. This was the body of a man he’d have swiped right on in a heartbeat. And that realization curdled into a nausea so profound he thought he might vomit.
Love for his dad—the simple, grieving, kind-hearted man—warred with a crushing secondhand embarrassment. But worse, weaving through the shame and confusion, was a thread of sharp, unwelcome arousal. It pulsed low in his gut, a traitorous response to the blatant, crude display. He was horrified by his own body’s reaction.
“Dad,” Ryan choked out, finally finding his voice. It was a dry rasp. “Please. Just… put some pants on.”
Shane’s expression faltered, just for a second. A flicker of doubt, of hurt, crossed his warm features.
"What's the matter? Do I... do I not look sexy, bud?"
The question hung there, soft and wounded. Shane’s shoulders slumped a little. The confident, instructive pose dissolved. He looked down at himself, at the black fabric cutting into his hip, and a flush of something like shame colored his neck and cheeks. It wasn’t the shame of wearing the thing, but the shame of failing at it. Of disappointing his audience.
Ryan’s anger evaporated, punctured by that simple, devastating vulnerability. This was just his dad. His big, kind, stupidly trusting dad, standing in a kitchen smelling of smoke, trying way too hard. The earnest love in Shane’s confused eyes was the same as ever. It cut through the surreal horror.
“No! I mean, yes. I mean…” Ryan stammered, his words tripping over each other. He dragged a hand over his face. “You look… it’s fine. You look… sexy. Okay? Very… sexy.” The word felt like broken glass in his mouth.
Shane’s head lifted, hope flickering back. “Yeah?”
“Yeah, Dad. It’s a… a good look. A confident look. You’re really… owning it.” Ryan heard himself parroting his dad’s own absurd language back to him, just to make the hurt go away. “If you wanna feel sexy, then… hell yeah. You should. I support that.”
The transformation was immediate. Shane stood straighter, the smile returning, wider and more relieved. “Thanks, buddy. That… that means a lot. Really.” He took a step forward, the spatula forgotten on the counter. “See, that’s what it’s all about. Supporting each other. You being brave enough to tell me who you are… it made me want to be brave, too. To explore.”
“Right. Exploring.” Ryan’s voice was flat.
“And I want you to know,” Shane continued, his tone deepening with paternal gravity, “that the support goes both ways. One hundred percent. If you ever wanna feel sexy, or explore things, or wear something… I don’t know, something that feels good to you… there is no judgment here. Not from me.” He spread his hands, the apron strings swaying. “Whatever it is. However slutty. However… perverted you might think it is.” He said the last word like it was a clinical term, something from a textbook. “This is a safe space. You can wear anything you want around this house. Or not wear anything. It’s all about being comfortable in your own skin.”
The monologue was a car crash in slow motion. Ryan could see the twisted logic, the genuine intent behind it, and it made his soul cringe. He just nodded, mutely, wanting the floor to swallow him.
“Come here,” Shane said, his voice thick with emotion.
Before Ryan could protest, Shane closed the distance and wrapped him in a bear hug. It was the same crushing, all-encompassing hug he’d given since Ryan was a kid. But now Ryan was pressed flush against the bare, sweat-damp skin of his father’s torso. The apron’s rough fabric was between them, but below it, Ryan’s jeans were against those powerful thighs. Shane’s massive arms tightened around his back, one big hand splayed between his shoulder blades.
And Ryan felt it.
The heat was immense. The sheer physicality of the man—the smell of his skin, a mix of salt and cheap cologne, the solid wall of muscle, the soft brush of chest hair against his own flannel shirt. His face was pressed into the curve of Shane’s neck. His body, traitorous and instinctual, reacted before his mind could veto it. A jolt of electricity shot down his spine, pooling low in his abdomen. He felt a stirring, a thickening in his own jeans that was both instantaneous and horrifying.
He tried to shift back, to create space, but Shane held him tighter, rocking slightly. “Love you, kid,” Shane murmured into his hair.
“Love you too, Dad,” Ryan choked out, his body rigid. He was achingly, unmistakably hard now, trapped against his father. The panic was clean and sharp. He pushed back, gently but firmly. “I gotta—I just remembered. I have a… a study group. Early. Gotta be on campus.”
Shane released him, beaming. “No problem! I’ll save the bacon. It’s a little crispy anyway.”
“Yeah. Great. Thanks.” Ryan was already backing toward the doorway, angling his body away. He darted forward, pecked a swift, dry kiss on Shane’s stubbled cheek, the gesture alien and rushed. “Bye.”
He practically ran to the front door, fumbling with the latch, not looking back. The cool morning air hit him like a slap. He stumbled down the front steps, his bootlaces slapping, and yanked open the door to his old Civic.
Inside, he slammed the door shut and locked it. He sat there, gripping the steering wheel, knuckles white. The engine was off. The world was silent except for the frantic drum of his heart in his ears.
What the fuck.
What the actual fuck.
He replayed it in jagged flashes. The ass. The spatula. The squeeze. The word ‘perverted’. The hug. The crushing heat. The hard-on.
A groan escaped him, long and pained. He dropped his forehead onto the steering wheel. He was aroused and disgusted in equal, paralyzing measure. The image of his dad in that thong was seared onto his retina. Objectively, it was the hottest thing he’d seen in months. Subjectively, it was a psychological wound.
And his dad’s face. So proud. So trusting. That was the worst part. Shane wasn’t being a creep. He was being… supportive. In some warped, broken way, he thought this was love.
And underneath his disgust, the unwanted physical reaction still throbbed, a phantom pulse of shame. His body had responded to a powerful, nearly naked man showing off for him. And that man was his father.
He started the car, the engine coughing to life. He needed to drive. To move. To outrun the feeling of that hug, the whispered “safe space,” the terrifying, open-ended invitation. He pulled away from the curb, the normalcy of his suburban street a stark contrast to the chaos in his head.
One thing was crystalline, cutting through the confusion: he could not download a dating app today. The thought of looking at another man, of judging another body, felt impossible. His own desires felt corrupted, tangled up in a knot of leather, silk, and paternal love so misguided it felt like a trap.
He drove, aimlessly, the taste of burnt bacon and cheap cologne still in his mouth.