Second Act

"You think that guy's hung?"

The voice was familiar in its Mississippi twang-drawl combo, almost a smoker's gravelly voice, though Coach Fitch didn't smoke. The familiarity of the voice made the words seem a shock. 

My old high school baseball coach was spending a week in Ptown with me, latting it all hang loose on the nude beach and scoping out some studs twenty years younger than him. 

"You like 'em big, Coach?" I teased now. Maybe a little jealous. I was normal sized myself, and I'd just fucked Dustin Fitch an hour before we headed out to the beach. 

The man gave me an exasperated look, his blue-gray eyes looking somehow more youthful than his weathered face and white-gray beard. "I thought we weren't doing the boyfriend thing, Connor," he said in that raspy voice.

"Yeah, sorry Coach," I apologized. It was my idea even. The kind of fuck buddy situation we had going on. I had major qualms about dating a man knocking on 60 and doubly hesitant to date a man with as much history as I had with Fitch. I'd probably never have an equal relationship with a man I never called by his first name.

The man gave a wry smile. "Well, I'm honored you'd feel jealous, stud."

I laughed, leaning back, feeling the sun warm my nude body. Like Coach, I wore only a ball cap. "You must think I'm a basketload of issues."

The man leaned up to a seated position. His eyes were still sweeping the beach. It had been quiet when we arrived, but the men were starting to fill it up. Hot men, too. "I'm the last man who's ever gonna judge you, C," he said, more softly. This was the best part of this week, seeing Coach let his guard down with me and be a little more vulnerable. Maybe a lot more vulnerable. This was a man who always said three words when a couple dozen was in order. The man who half the team called a miserable SOB.

I knew now why he was so miserable. We'd had sex right after my senior year, before I went off to an unsuccessful attempt at playing D1 baseball. And again when I'd come home to visit, before that too came to an end when my parents moved. 

I'd heard from Fitch out of the blue last year. He came up to Boston to visit and we fucked nonstop. He made a second visit before I took the chance of inviting him to Ptown. As a single guy it was the worst thing I could do, guaranteeing I wouldn't go off and meet guys the whole week. 

Fitch didn't seem to have the same hangups. The man stood up, his silvery body hair catching the sun, and his meaty dick lengthening some though not yet into anything obscene. "I'm gonna wander a bit," he announced, dusting the sand off his meaty calf. 

I knew where he was off to. To the dunes, to suck one a young meaty dick, or two. My buddies and I used to make fun of the older guys up there, on their knees and openly offering to blow you. I used to pretend I didn't go off on my own to take advantage of their services. 

"Yeah," I grunted in the most laid back voice I could as I watched my old coach strut off, sniffing his way to busiest dune, like a divining rod to water. I envied the fact Fitch was having his second act, feeling free. I was the young guy in my mid 30s, the prime of my life, I figured, yet I was the one with the hang ups. 

I sighed and leaned back onto my towel, pulling my ball cap over my eyes to shut my eyes and doze a little bit. Fitch and I had stayed out late at the bars the previous night, and the sun and breeze were making me sleepy. 

I don't know how long I napped, probably not long. When I sat up and put my sunglasses back on, Fitch still wasn't there, his empty towel a reminder he was probably having luck blowing some hot dudes. Or was simply waiting like a patient fisher or hunter. But past that towel, some ten feet away, sat a man in his late 40s, brown hair, and tanned. The man was about my height and thicker bodied, though more in that regular suburban body than in a gay toned muscle dad body. I couldn't help it, my dick firmed up. I pulled my legs up to hide the boner a little. Not that a hardon was completely unseen on the beach, but most guys were soft, and I didn't want to invite undue attention. 

I just wanted to watch this guy. His hair was longer than a lot of the guys, more regular corporate business cut, the hair showing some gray at the temples and lighter streaks in the bangs. He probably spent a lot of the summer on the Cape. He had that remote work vibe to him. 

"Nice bod," I spoke up. I rarely was forward with guys. Not like this. In my 20s I'd been used to being the center of attention. I had the ex-jock body and the cute face and guys came on to me, not other way around.

This guy was worth making an exception. The Dad looked over and I could tell from his smile that he'd been eyeing me up already. "You're too kind," he chuckled. "Nothing like Herring Cove to make you question your fitness progress."

"I'm not bullshitting you," I said simply. "I love your body."

"Well, thanks," he said, happy to take the compliment. "I take it you're a daddy chaser? I saw your boyfriend..."

Maybe the man had been there longer than I noticed. "We're not dating... he's just an old friend. But yes, I'm a daddy chaser."

That was the information the guy was looking for. "Shit," he chuckled. Like he was embarrassed by our conversation. 

"What?" I asked. 

He flashed a little smile. "I keep telling myself I was going to stop going for younger guys."

I was intrigued now. I was glad my hardon had softened, and I straightened my legs so that Corporate Dad could see my whole naked body. "Why is that?"

The man grinned. "I dunno. You know how it is. Things that start off fun manage to get complicated, fast."

I sighed. "Yeah, I hear ya." I thought of my few last days with Fitch. "Listen... what do you think of grabbing some dinner tonight? We don't have to get to the complicated part. Maybe just have the fun part, you know?"

He seemed to think it over. Then said. "Yeah, I'd like that. I'm at the Brass Key. Maybe meet there at 7?"

"Yeah, that sounds great," I replied. I had been so carried away talking to this guy, that I hadn't realized I didn't even know his name. "I'm Connor," I said.

"Owen," the daddy said. "Nice to meet you Connor. I love your accent by the way."

"Mississippi," I said. I used to get tired of the way guys in Boston made a big deal out of me being Southern, but if a dude wasn't an ass about it, I let the accent work for me. "You're a New Englander?" I asked. I wouldn't call Owen's accent thick, but it was clear nonetheless.

"Massachusetts born and raised. I should probably see more of the world," he said thoughtfully. "But we can trade histories over dinner. How's that?"

"Sounds amazing," I said.

Owen winked and stood up. His cock hung soft from a busy crotch that fanned up into a furry belly and chest. Total Real Daddy. Just the right amount of softness and give to his spread. It was awesome to behold. "Gonna try out the water... but tonight at 7?"

"It's a date," I replied. Indeed, this was the first actual date I'd have in a year.

I watched the man walk down to the water. If his front was on the soft side in the way some middle aged guys get, his back was real solid. Knotted back muscle, meaty ass that showed he worked out pretty regularly and didn't skimp on leg day. My dick was getting firm again, and I though of rolling over to hide my erection. 

"If you need me to take care of that, we can go to the dunes."

It was Coach Fitch, having returned from his rounds. He had a shit-eating grin on his face and a sense of accomplishment. 

I reached down and pinched the base of my prick, trying to get it to go down. "Nah, I'm good, Coach. Gotta hot date tonight." I wasn't sure if I should be boasting about it to Fitch. 

"Is that right, Connor?" the man laughed as he plopped down on his towel. Then he said, "Good for you." He looked me over some. "I worry about you sometimes, you know?"

This whole time I'd always fancied myself Coach's gay mentor, the one who helped him through the coming out process, the man who helped Fitch find his second act. 

But I realized I was the one having a second act, or at least at the point in my life where I was ready for one. 

There were a million things I wanted to say to Coach. But we had all week, and even then there may be too much history between us. Instead, I stretched out my towel and stood up. "I'm good, Coach," I said proudly, stubbornly. "I'm gonna swim a little, OK?"

The man could see through me though. He grinned, as if he could tell why I was going into the water, for a chance to talk to Owen more. "Yep... and Connor... that guy is one lucky SOB," he nodded in the direction where Owen was bobbing up and down in the waves. "Tell him that."

I laughed. This was the old Fitch I remembered from the dugout in high school. "Will do, Coach."