Chapter 8: Father Knows Best
The door clicked shut behind Kenji and Darius, leaving a sudden, heavy quiet in the room. I was sprawled on my bed, the neon green band of my thong cutting deep into the flesh of my hips, the material a stark, electric contrast against the tan skin and dark hair of my thighs. I could feel every inch of the bedspread against my bare back, the cool air from the vent raising goosebumps on my arms. Chad hadn’t moved from the desk chair, his eyes on me, appraising.
“You know,” he said, his voice breaking the silence like a stone tossed into a pond, “I’m actually proud of you, dude.”
I rolled my head to look at him. “For what? For almost giving my dad a heart attack when he walked in on me riding that dildo?”
“Exactly.” Chad grinned, that same confident, challenging grin. “You didn’t stop. You were so far gone, so into being a little gay slut, that you just kept going. That’s commitment. That’s degenerate.”
I felt a flush crawl up my neck. It was one thing to do it, another to have it laid out so plainly. “Shut up, man.”
“I mean it. You’re a pervert. Your brain is wired to your hole. It’s kinda amazing.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “And you’re not the only one. Think about it. There’s gotta be, like, a whole secret society of guys like you. Big, hairy, masc-as-fuck jocks who spend their whole lives pretending to be one thing, when all they really are is a pair of needy, sloppy man-cunts waiting to be advertised.”
His words shouldn’t have made my heart hammer. But they did. They painted a picture that was terrifying and electric.
“You need to own it,” he pressed, his voice dropping, intense. “Not just for you. For them. Be the guy that makes it okay. The inspiration.”
“Own it how?” My voice came out a whisper.
“By burning the bridges.” He stood up, fluid and purposeful, and walked to my closet. He slid the door open with a rumble. My whole life hung in there: jerseys from high school, stacks of jeans, a shelf of folded t-shirts. “All of this. It’s a lie. It’s camouflage. You don’t need it anymore.”
He reached in and pulled out a simple grey cotton t-shirt, one of my favorites. He held it up. “This hides what you are. From the world. From yourself.”
My mouth went dry. The idea was intoxicating. Permanent exposure. No safety net. Just me and a drawer full of thongs. The thought sent a jolt straight to my cock, which twitched visibly against the neon green fabric. “I… I can’t just… walk around like this all the time.”
“Why not?” Chad’s eyes were sharp. “You want to. I know you do. You get hard thinking about it right now.”
I did. God, I did. The shame-fueled arousal was a familiar, dizzying cocktail. “It’s crazy.”
“It’s true.” In one smooth motion, he pulled a pair of scissors from my desk drawer. The metal gleamed in the low light.
“Chad, no—”
Snip.
The sound was shockingly loud. A clean, vicious cut right across the chest of the grey shirt.
“Stop it!” I launched myself off the bed, crossing the room in two strides. I grabbed for his wrist, my fingers closing around solid muscle. “That’s mine!”
We grappled. It was stupid, two muscular guys wrestling over a ruined t-shirt in a bedroom that smelled of sweat and cologne. He was stronger, always had been, but I was fueled by a panicked sense of violation. We stumbled, knocking against the desk, sending a trophy rattling. I had a grip on the scissors, trying to pry them from his hand, our breaths coming in sharp grunts.
“What in God’s name is going on in here?”
My dad’s voice, a deep baritone of pure authority, froze us both. We broke apart, panting. I was facing the door, Chad behind me with the scissors still in his hand. My dad filled the doorway, his broad shoulders nearly touching the frame, his thick daddy mustache twitching with concern. He was in a worn-in tank top, his own hairy, muscular chest on full display.
“Dad,” I gasped, relief flooding me. “Thank God. He’s—he’s lost it. He’s trying to cut up all my clothes. He wants me to only wear… these.” I gestured weakly at the scrap of neon green clinging to my ass.
My dad’s eyes moved from my frantic face, down over my heaving chest, to the thong. His gaze lingered there for a second that stretched into an eternity. Then he looked past me, at Chad.
“Is that true, Chad?”
Chad, to his credit, didn’t look away. “Yes, sir. It’s time.”
My dad nodded slowly, as if Chad had just confirmed the weather. Then he moved. Not towards Chad, but towards me. His big hands, calloused from work, closed around my biceps from behind. He pulled me back, not roughly, but with an immovable strength that lifted me off my feet for a second. He wrapped me in a bear hug, my back flush against his chest, my arms pinned to my sides.
“Dad? What are you—?”
“Shhh, son. It’s okay.” His voice was a rumble in my ear, warm and close. His breath smelled of coffee. He held me tight, a full-body embrace that was both restraining and comfortingly solid. “Chad,” he said over my shoulder. “Go ahead.”
The world tilted. “What? No! Dad, let me go!”
I strained against him, but it was like pushing against a brick wall. He just held me tighter, one arm across my chest, the other locking my hips against his. I was trapped, completely exposed in front of my best friend.
Snip. Snip. Rip.
Chad went to work. He pulled another shirt from the closet—my varsity football jersey—and laid it on the desk. The scissors made short, decisive work of it, slicing through the numbered fabric with finality. Each sound was a little death.
“Blake, listen to me,” my dad murmured, his lips almost touching my ear. His hold was unwavering. “I see you now. I really see you. That night on the coffee table… that wasn’t a mistake. That was you. My boy was born to be a slut. A beautiful, hungry, perverted little slut.”
Tears pricked my eyes. They weren’t from sadness, but from a shocking, overwhelming flood of acceptance. His words should have repulsed me. Instead, they seeped into me, unlocking something deep and desperate.
“There are a lot of lonely, perverted creeps out there, Blake,” he continued, his voice gentle, factual. “Good men, probably, with needs. They need a beacon. You, walking around in those little things, that incredible ass on display… you’d be a public service. An advertisement. That thick, hairy butt of yours is a perfect man-ass. It’s a goddamn masterpiece. It would be a crime against nature for it not to be used. As frequently as possible.”
As he spoke, Chad destroyed another pair of jeans, then a hoodie. The pile of ruined fabric on the floor grew. And as my dad held me, speaking these filthy, accepting words, a different heat bloomed in my core. My resistance melted, replaced by a throbbing, insistent arousal. I felt myself hardening, the pressure against the front of my thong becoming painful. A low moan escaped my lips.
My dad felt it. He felt the tension leave my body, felt the shudder that ran through me. He hugged me closer. “That’s it. You know I’m right, don’t you?”
I nodded, helpless, my eyes glued to Chad methodically destroying my past. A strange, giddy euphoria mixed with the heat in my gut. It was for the best. This was freedom. This was truth.
“Yeah,” I breathed out. “Yeah, I do.”
Chad paused, holding up the tattered remains of a flannel shirt. “So what’s the plan, boss?”
I took a deep, shaky breath, still cradled in my dad’s arms. An idea, perfect and complete, flashed in my mind. “Don’t just put them in trash bags,” I said, my voice stronger now, edged with excitement. “That’s too quiet. We take it all out back. We build a bonfire. We burn it. All of it. A proper send-off.”
A slow smile spread across Chad’s face. My dad’s arms gave me one final, squeeze before releasing me. He turned me to face him, his big hands on my shoulders. His eyes, the same blue as mine but wiser, crinkled at the corners. “Now you’re thinking,” he said, pride clear in his tone.
I looked from his proud face to Chad’s triumphant grin, then down at the pile of shredded fabric that used to be my armor. A wild, liberated laugh bubbled up in my chest.
“Let’s build a fire.”