Chapter 4: The Backyard Reveal
The wooden stairs were a gauntlet. Each step announced my descent with a groan or a creak, loud as a gunshot in the silence of the house. The cool air from the central vent downstairs washed over me, raising goosebumps on my legs, my arms, the expanse of my back. I could feel the air on parts of my skin that had never felt it indoors before. The strip of the thong was a familiar anchor, a thin line of possession in a swimming sea of exposure.
Through the banister, I saw the empty living room. The TV was off. The blinds were open, letting in the late afternoon sun that painted a rectangle of gold on the carpet. My reflection ghosted in the dark screen of the television—a pale, muscular shape, indecently underdressed. I didn’t look away.
The sliding glass door to the backyard was open, the screen door unlatched. Noise filtered in: the sizzle of meat on the grill, the low murmur of two voices, the clink of a bottle on the patio table. The smells hit me next—charcoal, grilled onions, the sweet tang of barbecue sauce. Normal, familial smells that now felt like the backdrop to a surreal play.
I could feel my friends behind me, a silent procession at the top of the stairs. I didn’t turn. Their gaze was a physical pressure between my shoulder blades, pushing me forward.
I crossed the living room. My bare feet were silent on the cool hardwood. With every step, the patio came clearer into view. My dad’s broad back, encased in a faded grey t-shirt, muscles moving as he flipped a burger. My brother Cody, leaning against the railing, a bottle of beer dangling from his fingers, his mohawk a dark spike against the green of the trees.
I stopped in the open doorway. The sunlight was a physical shock, warm and immediate on my skin. I took a breath, my chest expanding, the hair dark against my pale skin. I didn’t speak. I just waited.
It was Cody who saw me first. His eyes, which had been tracking a bird across the yard, slid lazily toward the house. They passed over me, then snapped back. His bored expression dissolved into pure, uncomprehending confusion. His brow furrowed. He blinked, as if clearing a haze.
“What the…” he said, the words soft, almost lost in the sizzle of the grill.
My dad heard the shift in his tone. “What’s up?” he asked, not turning around, his focus on scraping the grill.
Cody didn’t answer. He just stared, his eyes traveling from my face, down my hairy chest, over the flat of my stomach, to the blatant, minimal black fabric of the thong, and then down my thick, hairy legs to my bare feet. His gaze stuck on the thong, then jerked back up to my face. His mouth was slightly open.
My dad, finally registering the silence, turned.
The spatula froze in his hand.
His eyes—my eyes, but older, edged with wrinkles—widened. His gaze did the same journey Cody’s had, but slower, more deliberate. There was no confusion on his face. Just a dawning, heavy realization. He saw the thong. He saw my posture—not cringing, but standing there, hands at my sides, taking it. He saw the full, muscular development of my body, on obscene display. He saw his son.
The moment stretched, taut and silent, broken only by the hiss-pop of a flare-up on the grill.
“Blake,” my dad said. His voice was calm, but it was the calm of deep water, hiding currents underneath. “You’re… you’re not dressed.”
“I am dressed,” I said. My voice didn’t crack. It came out low, almost defiant.
He processed that. His eyes flicked once more to the black fabric. A dozen emotions seemed to pass behind his eyes—concern, disbelief, a flash of something like embarrassment, and then, settling deep, a weary kind of assessment. He looked me over not as a parent, but as a man looking at another man. I saw his eyes catch on my chest, the width of my shoulders, the curve of my ass, barely contained by the thong’s back strap.
“That’s a thong,” Cody said, finding his voice. It was louder now, edged with a snort of incredulous laughter. “You’re wearing a fucking thong. To a family barbecue.”
“Yeah,” I said, looking right at him. “I am.”
“Why?” The word exploded from my dad. It wasn’t angry. It was plaintive, almost pained. “Son, why would you… what’s going on?”
This was the moment. The confession. It wasn’t to friends in a locked bedroom now. It was in the open air, with grease smoke in our noses.
“This is who I am, Dad,” I said, and the simplicity of it stunned even me. “I’m gay. And I… I like this. I like wearing this. I like how it feels. I like how it makes me feel.” I swallowed. “I like when people look.”
Cody barked a laugh. “No shit! You’re practically begging for it!” He took a swig of his beer, his eyes gleaming with cruel amusement. “Jesus, Blake. I knew you were a meathead, but I didn’t know you were a slut.”
“Cody,” my dad warned, but his voice lacked its usual force. He was still looking at me, his expression unreadable.
“What? It’s true!” Cody gestured at me with his bottle. “Look at him! He’s built like a brick shithouse and he’s dressed like a Vegas showgirl. He wants us to look. Right, bro? That’s the whole point?”
I held his mocking gaze. The humiliation was there, hot and sharp, but beneath it, powering my stillness, was that terrifying thrill of truth. “Yeah,” I said, my voice quiet but clear. “That’s the whole point.”
My dad closed his eyes for a second. He took a deep breath, his big chest rising and falling. When he opened them, he looked older. He looked at the thong again, then directly into my eyes. “Is this… are you safe? Are you… happy?”
The care in the questions undid me a little. The defiance wavered. “I’m happy like this,” I whispered. “This makes me happy. Being seen like this.”
He nodded slowly, as if filing the information away in a new, unfamiliar cabinet. He turned back to the grill, flipping a burger with more force than necessary. “You’ll burn,” he said, his voice gruff. “The sun. You’ve got no coverage. You’ll fry your… skin.”
It was such a Dad thing to say. Such a practical, bodily concern. It wasn’t rejection. It was a bizarre, sideways acceptance.
“I’ll get some oil,” I said, the absurdity of the statement making my head spin.
“I’ll get it!” Chad’s voice came from behind me. He stepped out onto the patio, past me, as casual as if he were fully clothed. Darius and Kenji followed, fanning out. Their presence changed the chemistry of the space entirely. This was no longer a fraught family confrontation. It was a social event. My support team had arrived.
My dad looked at them, then back at me, a new understanding dawning. “They know.”
“They helped,” I said.
Cody watched the exchange, his smirk fading into something more thoughtful, more calculating. He watched Chad, who was now rummaging in the cooler for a beer, his own athletic body relaxed and confident. He watched Darius’s mischievous eyes taking in the scene. He watched Kenji’s gentle, watchful presence near my side.
Chad found the sunscreen on the patio table—a bottle of SPF 50. He tossed it to me. “Here. Don’t want that prize-winning ass getting blistered on its first day out.”
I fumbled the catch. The bottle thudded against my chest. I could feel everyone’s eyes on my hands as I unscrewed the cap, squeezed a white glob into my palm. The lotion was cool. I started rubbing it onto my shoulders, my chest. The action was intensely, overwhelmingly sexual. I was oiling myself up in front of my father. My skin glistened under the sun.
My dad watched, his jaw tight. He didn’t look away. He saw the way my muscles moved under my skin, the way my hand slid over my pectorals, down the grooves of my abdomen. He saw the sheer, brazen physicality of me.
“Need help with your back?” Kenji offered softly.
Before I could answer, Cody pushed off the railing. “I got it.” He set his beer down. His movements were quick, decisive. He took the bottle from my hand, his fingers brushing mine. He was taller than me, slimmer, but his presence felt suddenly very large.
He poured lotion into his own palm. “Turn around, slut.”
The word hung in the air, sharp and deliberate. My dad stiffened but said nothing. Chad watched, a slow smile spreading on his face. Darius let out a low chuckle.
I turned, presenting my back to my brother. I faced my dad, who was staring over my shoulder at Cody, his expression inscrutable.
Cody’s hands were cooler than mine. They landed on my shoulder blades. He started rubbing the lotion in, his touch businesslike at first. Then it slowed. His palms slid down the slope of my back, feeling the muscle, the vertebrae. His thumbs dug into the muscles along my spine, a surprisingly strong, knowing pressure. His hands moved lower, over the small of my back, his fingers tracing the top edge of the thong where it bit into my skin. He spread the lotion over the full, round curves of my ass, his touch firm, possessive, thorough. He didn’t stop at the thong line. His fingers, slick with lotion, slipped beneath the elastic, just a fraction, spreading the sunscreen onto the upper swell of flesh usually hidden.
A jolt, electric and profound, went through me. I stopped breathing.
My dad saw it. He saw my eyes flutter closed for a second. He saw the slight tremble in my legs. He saw the way I leaned back, ever so slightly, into my brother’s touch.
Cody’s hands stilled. He leaned forward, his lips close to my ear. His voice was a hot, quiet murmur, just for me. “See? Told you you were begging for it.” He pulled his hands away, wiping them on his jeans. “All done.”
I turned back around, my skin glowing, my heart a wild thing in my chest. My face was flaming. Cody retrieved his beer, his eyes meeting mine. The mockery was still there, but it had changed. It was darker now. Interested.
My dad looked from Cody to me. Something had settled in his face. A resignation, maybe. An acceptance of a new, incomprehensible reality. He picked up a plate.
“Burgers are done,” he said, his voice a gravelly rumble. He slapped a patty onto a bun. “Blake. You want yours… how you always have it?”
The mundane question was an olive branch. A lifeline back to normalcy, even if normalcy was forever altered.
“Yeah, Dad,” I said, my throat tight. “Everything on it.”