Father's Day Strip-Off

Chapter 1: The Seahorse

Zach pushed through the door of The Seahorse and immediately knew the night wasn’t going to go according to plan.

The place was packed—shoulder to shoulder, louder than he’d ever heard it. Normally this was his quiet backup spot: artists, loners, queer kids and old gay guys, and plenty of space at the bar to read in peace if the cruising didn’t pan out.

Tonight, there was a chattering energy from guys he’d never seen before. The dead zone in the middle of the space—a dance floor no one ever used between the front bar and the pool tables and jukebox at the far end—had been completely swallowed up by a hastily thrown-together plywood stage, boom speakers, and a makeshift seating pit.

What the fuck?

He’d come out hoping to get lucky. That was the whole point, even if bringing a beat-up paperback of Pride & Prejudice to a dark dive bar was a dubious cruising strategy. It was his insurance policy. He could always order a beer and disappear into the book until last call.

He made his way to the only open stool at the bar, squeezing in and setting his paperback down. The t-shirt he was wearing pulled slightly tight across his chest, the fabric skimming over the wiry definition of his chest and abs.

A neon green flyer was taped to the mirror right in front of him. He cocked his head to read it.

FATHER’S DAY STRIP-OFF DILF Contest • Cash Prize • 10pm

The illustration was crude—some generic muscle dad ripping his shirt off. Zach frowned. He could’ve done better with ten minutes and a decent marker.

"When did that happen?" he muttered to no one.

"Owners are trying to drum up business," answered a voice behind the bar.

Zach looked up. It was the Saturday bartender—the cute one with the glasses, the dimples, and the tight black t-shirt. He was already reaching for a glass.

"Since when?" Zach asked.

"That’s what you miss when you don’t come in for a few weeks," the bartender said. He set an IPA down on the bar with a wink.

Zach’s brow furrowed. He didn’t think the bartender even knew him. He certainly never expected to be remembered—not his face and not his drink.

He took the beer and turned his attention back to the flyer, trying not to overthink the wink. He was halfway through reading the fine print when the presence on the stool next to him shifted.

"You here for the show?" The guy’s voice came out low and ridiculously gravelly.

"What?" Zach answered on autopilot. "Yeah, sure. Hot dads. Why not?"

Then he turned. Dark hair and eyes. Boulder shoulders, a heavy chest, and thick forearms resting on the bar. A neck as thick as his strong, square jaw. He had the thick build of a construction worker bursting out of a tight polo shirt, but the face of a frat bro a few years past college age. 

He leaned into Zach’s airspace, his shirt hanging on for dear life. "Leo."

He had the smug, unapologetic ease of a guy who lived on a steady diet of lifting, questionable supplements, and constant validation. Still. The body was stupidly good.

"Zach."

Steroids are bad for you, Zach wanted to say. And then a second thought: For a chest like that, I would feed you steroids like a human Pez dispenser.

He decided to let himself lean into it. Maybe the night wasn’t a total loss after all.

Then he felt it.

That familiar shift in the air behind him. Leo's dark eyes flicked from Zach's face to a spot just over his shoulder, his expression pausing in sudden appreciation.

Zach turned.

The man standing there was older, with short, thinning blond hair and a face that had aged in the best possible way. He was tan, his jaw working a piece of gum with a slow, casual rhythm. Handsome. Where Leo’s muscles looked pumped and inflated, this man was dense and carved—mature. Solid pecs and thick arms filled out a plain white t-shirt. Dark jeans clung to strong legs, the material faded over his thighs.

"Zachariah," the man said, like they’d just run into each other at the grocery store.

Zach felt his face heat, jerking his head back.

"Bill," he managed.

Leo shifted on his stool, looking between them. He didn't seem to mind the intrusion; if anything, his eyes were blatantly tracking the stretch of Bill’s t-shirt across his shoulders.

Bill flashed an easy, confident smile, and a nod—effectively dismissing Leo entirely. He stepped right into the narrow gap between Zach’s thighs, making clear this was between him and Zach.

"What the hell are you doing here?" Zach hissed under his breath.

Bill’s eyebrows lifted, amused. He didn't lower his voice at all. "It's a special weekend. Figured I'd come see what my favorite guy is up to. I was afraid you might be at some dour poetry reading."

"This is supposed to be my bar," Zach said, a flat edge to his voice. "Bill-free territory. You're not even gay."

"I’m flexible." Bill gave his shoulder a nudge, solid and familiar. "You should try it some time. Loosen up. Have a little fun for a change."

Bill gave the big man at Zach’s side a slow, deliberate wink. He pulled a faded baseball cap onto his head, tugged the brim low, and backed off, disappearing into the crowd. The white t-shirt and dark jeans did nothing to hide the way he moved—solid, confident, every inch of him earned in the gym and carried like he knew people were looking.

Leo shifted on his stool, his eyes tracking Bill. He let out a low, appreciative whistle, not even trying to hide his interest. "Now that is the kind of DILF they’re looking for tonight," he muttered. "Maybe this contest is actually worth a damn if guys like that are showing up."

Zach shoved his fingers through his hair. "Yeah."

Leo tilted his head. "You guys a—?"

"We have history," Zach said.

Leo smirked, picking up his bottle. “Whatever he is, he knows how to make an entrance."

"History" was the polite word.

The more complete answer sat behind Zach’s ribs, the same old complicated prickle he never liked to examine too closely.

He’s been making entrances my whole life, Zach thought. Since birth, actually.

He’s my dad.

---

Chapter 2: Chain of Custody

Zach tuned Leo out.

The guy was still talking—something about his latest shoulder day—but the words barely registered. Zach’s eyes had drifted across the bar again to where Bill stood near the pool tables. He was laughing at something, one arm resting on the edge of the felt like it was made for him.

It always came back to this.

Bill and Zach’s mother had a whirlwind marriage that played out like a natural disaster. When it finally cratered, Zach was four. He didn't remember the marriage, but he remembered the afternoon it ended. His mother drove to her mother-in-law's house and marched up the front steps. She was returning her husband. Zach was just the accessory.

She stood on the porch, looked Nana dead in the eye, and said, “I’ve done what I can with him. He’s yours now.”

After that, life with Bill was never ordinary. Breakfast could turn into a competition without warning, Bill scarfing waffles like it was an Olympic event Zach didn’t even know he’d entered. Until he saw Bill grinning at him with buttery lips, cheeks full.

"I won, kid."

Grocery runs became demolition derbies. Bill would grab a cart at the entrance, announce, "First one to the frozen aisle doesn't have to carry the bags," and take off sprinting down the linoleum. Their shopping carts would slam into each other in the aisles while Nana sighed and pretended not to know them.

Bill had a habit of "accidentally" showing up at Zach’s field trips, leaning against the museum doors in snug t-shirts while the chaperone moms stood around, probably noticing the difference between Zach’s dad and their own paunchy husbands. Zach had been secretly proud of it back then. His dad was cooler than everyone else’s. Louder. Without even knowing what it really meant, sexier.

When Zach brought home a bad grade, Bill wouldn't ground him. Instead, he’d march into the school the next day, lean over the teacher's desk, and argue—with utter sincerity and a heart-stopping smile—that his kid deserved a do-over. It usually worked.

Then came Zach’s sixteenth birthday.

Nana was tiny, barely reaching Bill’s chest. She patted her son's thick bicep with one frail hand, looked up at her teenage grandson, and passed the baton.

“Zachariah,” she said. “I’ve done what I can with him. He’s yours now.”

She left for Florida, and just like that, the job got handed over.

Zach tried to pass along some of the basic life lessons he’d learned in a decade and a half. Responsibility. Consequences. Thinking about someone other than yourself.

The advice bounced off Bill like water off a rock. He wasn’t mean about it—he just didn’t absorb it. He lived off a small trust fund left by his father—not enough to be rich, but enough to keep him from ever having a job, if he was thrifty. Enough to spare him from ever having to be reliable. So he went to the gym. Played sports. Lived year-round in athletic shorts and nothing else around the house, leaving all that hard-earned muscle on constant display.

Then it started getting complicated.

Zach remembered sitting on the couch with his sketchbook while Bill worked out in the middle of the living room. It had started out innocently enough—Bill dropping down for push-ups, or pull-ups on the doorframe bar, or grabbing the dumbbells he kept in the corner. The sound of his breathing filled the room. Low grunts. The occasional muttered “fuck” when a set got difficult.

Zach tried to focus on his drawing. He really did. But his eyes kept drifting.

Bill’s body was impossible to ignore. Sweat would sheen across his chest and stomach, catching the afternoon light. The gold chest hair would cling to his skin, glinting every time he moved. Zach found himself noticing the way Bill’s pecs shifted and flexed with each pull-up, the deep V of muscle that disappeared into the waistband of his shorts, the thick, solid curve of his ass when he stood up to grab a drink of water.

The more he tried not to look, the more his eyes betrayed him. The flex of Bill’s arms. The way his back muscles moved. The soft, rhythmic sound of his breathing.

Then the graphic, intrusive thoughts started—sudden, uninvited flashes of his dad stripped bare, doing things that made Zach’s face burn and his stomach twist in horrible, complicated knots, right as his underwear started to do the same.

Zach started spending more time in his room with the door shut after that.

Bill noticed the change, of course. He always noticed when Zach pulled away.

“C’mon, kid,” he said one afternoon, standing in Zach’s doorway in nothing but a pair of low-slung athletic shorts, still damp from his workout. “You’re getting soft on me.”

“I’m good,” Zach muttered, not looking up from his sketchbook.

Bill crossed his arms over his chest. “You sure? You used to like hanging out while I lifted.”

Zach’s face burned. He could still smell Bill’s sweat from across the room.

“I’m not like you,” he said quietly.

Bill raised an eyebrow. “Meaning?”

Zach swallowed. His throat felt tight.

“I’m gay.”

For a second, the room was quiet. Then Bill let out a low whistle. “Harder crowd, kid. We gotta up your routine then. The gays know their fitness.”

Despite himself, Zach let his father have his way. He never got as massive as Bill—he never wanted to—but he got lean and solid in his own way.

When Zach turned old enough to actually go to bars, he made the mistake of leaving a matchbook from a downtown leather bar on his dresser. Bill, a man who viewed personal boundaries as invitations, didn't ask about it.

But the next Friday when Zach walked into the dark bar, he immediately spotted his father at the far end of the counter. He was wearing a simple black t-shirt that clung to his chest, the sleeves stretched tight around his biceps. His hair was freshly cut, and he had that relaxed, easy posture that always seemed to draw people in.

Two guys were already buying him drinks. One had a hand resting low on Bill’s back, fingers idly stroking just above the waistband of his jeans. Bill didn’t move away. He just laughed—that same easy, unbothered laugh—and let the guy keep touching him while he sipped his beer.

Zach stood frozen for a few seconds, watching as another man leaned in to say something in Bill’s ear. The guy’s hand slid a little lower, resting on Bill’s ass like it was public property. And Bill didn’t even blink. He just shifted his weight and let it happen.

Zach’s stomach twisted—part irritation, part something hotter and more shameful he didn’t want to name.

He pushed through the crowd and grabbed Bill by the elbow, dragging him toward the narrow hallway near the bathrooms.

“What the fuck is this?” he hissed once they were out of the main crush.

Bill leaned back against the brick wall, completely relaxed, one thick arm braced above his head. He looked amused.

“Watch the flamboyance, kid. It’s not that kind of bar.” He already understood the ecosystem perfectly.

He glanced back toward the bar, where a group of guys were still watching him like he was a jungle gym. “Kid, you held out on me. Women my age want a mortgage and emotional maturity. These guys?” He grinned, wide and unapologetic. “They just want to buy me drinks and see what’s under the t-shirt. It’s a gold mine.”

Bill tilted his head, studying his son.

“We could be wingmen,” he said, like it was the most natural offer in the world. “You point me toward the ones who like older guys, I’ll send the rest to you. It’ll be fun.”

Zach stared at him, caught between wanting to punch him and wanting to drag him out of the bar before anyone else put their hands on him.

Instead, he just shook his head and walked away, leaving Bill standing there in the hallway with that same easy, golden-retriever grin on his face.

By then, there was no one left for Zach to hand Bill off to. There was no one he could look at and say he’d done what he could. He was stuck with custody.

'Dad' became just Bill. And Zach started avoiding the scene almost entirely.

He kept to his one safe, quiet, Bill-free gay bar—The Seahorse. The one dark, weird place he could go without worrying his father would walk in and turn the whole night sideways just by existing.

Until tonight.

Leo said something and nudged Zach’s arm, trying to pull him back into the conversation. Zach made a vague sound and took a long drink of his beer, his eyes still fixed on the man across the room.

Bill was laughing again, his head tipped back. The white t-shirt stretched tight across his chest with the motion. Someone in the crowd said something that made him grin and flex one arm, showing off. Even from the bar, Zach could see the thick, blue vein running through his bicep.

Then a guy with a tight, military-style fade stepped into Zach’s line of sight. He leaned in, said something low, and casually wrapped a hand around Bill’s thick bicep, giving it a possessive tug.

Bill didn’t hesitate. He flashed that easy, high-wattage smile, reached up to casually spin his faded baseball cap so the brim faced backward, and let himself be pulled away into the crowd.

---

Chapter 3: Turf War

Zach stared at the empty space where Bill had just been standing. He needed to shut this down before the night spiraled completely out of his control.

"I need a minute," Zach said, turning back to Leo. He set his copy of Pride & Prejudice flat on the vinyl cushion of his open stool. "Hold my seat. Don't go anywhere."

Leo glanced down at the book, then up at Zach, his smirk in full force. He leaned an elbow on the bar, looking Zach up and down. "You're putting a lot of faith in a book to keep me entertained. You just that sure you're worth waiting for?"

Zach looked at the broad expanse of Leo's chest, taking a long second to weigh his options. On one hand, he had a guaranteed, mindless distraction with a very hot, very arrogant guy. On the other hand, he had the impending disaster of his father running loose.

He was genuinely tempted to just sink back onto his stool, let Leo buy him a drink, and let Bill become Chicago's problem for the night. But the image of that military-cut guy leading Bill away by the bicep flashed in his mind. He decided the gnawing feeling was just familial guilt.

"Sit down and watch the stool," Zach said, his voice completely flat. He’d spent the last decade managing Bill, he had a deep, practiced reserve of blunt, paternal authority, and he didn't hesitate to use it. "I'll be back in five minutes."

Leo’s eyebrows raised. Maybe guys didn't usually walk away from him when he gave them an opening, let alone assign him a chore on their way out. Maybe that was what did it—the sudden, unexpected challenge shifting his cocky attitude straight into genuine intrigue.

"Alright," Leo murmured, sinking his hard, muscled ass onto the stool. "Five minutes."

Zach pushed his way off the bar and waded into the thick of the crowd. The Seahorse was small enough that no one could really hide, especially not someone who took up as much physical and psychic air space as Bill.

It took Zach less than two minutes to find him.

His dad was up near the glowing neon arc of the jukebox in the back, holding a bottle of premium beer he definitely hadn't paid for himself. The guy with the military fade was leaning in close, talking loudly over the bass of the music while his hand rested, presumptuously, on Bill's forearm. Bill was nodding along, perfectly relaxed, his faded cap flipped backward with the visor facing the rear.

Zach walked straight up and wedged himself between them. He didn't wait for a break in the conversation.

"He's busy," Zach said to the guy with the haircut, his voice leaving absolutely no room for debate. "Take a walk."

The guy blinked, startled by the sudden intrusion. He looked to Bill for a rescue or a contradiction, but Bill just stood there, letting it happen. The guy scowled, muttered an excuse, and backed away into the sweaty crush of the crowd.

Bill watched the guy go, then turned back to Zach with a slow, amused smile.

“Get tired of the douchebag yet?” he asked.

Zach’s jaw tightened. He knew exactly who Bill was talking about.

"I'm serious, Bill. You need to leave," Zach said. He kept his voice pitched low enough to avoid making a scene, but hard enough to make his point. "There are a dozen other bars in the city. Go to one of them."

"But I like it here." Bill leaned back against the brick wall, the neon pink and blue light from the jukebox catching the solid, squared-off line of his jaw. "Good energy. Everyone's very friendly." He looked around and then back at Zach. “You could be doing a lot better than that guy.”

Zach stared at him. “I’m not having this conversation with you,” he said tightly.

Bill sighed, giving Zach a look of mild disappointment. "You used to be so much fun, kid. What happened to you?"

"I grew up, and you didn't," Zach shot back. "And the last thing I need is to babysit you in this… sea of daddy-hunters."

"Sounds like my kind of crowd," Bill said, raising his bottle to his mouth.

He stopped mid-sip. He slowly lowered the brown glass bottle, his pale eyes drifting over Zach’s shoulder toward the makeshift plywood stage at the front of the room.

A slow grin spread across his face.

Before Zach could parse the sudden shift, the overhead lights in the bar flickered twice—a harsh, rapid strobe signaling the start of the show. The crowd let out a collective, boozy whoop that shook the floorboards.

Zach didn't have the patience to decode whatever new distraction had caught his father's eye. He just needed to get back to Leo before the night was a total wash.

"I don't have time for this right now," Zach said, his voice clipped and rising over the sudden swell of noise. "I've got a guy with the attention span of a goldfish waiting for me at the bar. I'm going there. You're going home. End of story."

He didn't wait for a response. He just pivoted on his heel and marched away, leaving Bill standing by the jukebox with a fresh, terrible gleam in his eye.

Zach hustled back through the crowd, his heart hammering with a sudden panic that while he was busy shooting himself in the foot with his dad, Leo would have gotten bored and bolted. He used his shoulder to push his way past a group of guys in leather harnesses, finally breaking through near the front bar.

Leo was exactly where Zach had left him.

A guy in a tight, ribbed tank top was leaning against the bartop, clearly making his pitch. Leo was listening, his shoulders relaxed, occasionally offering a nod, though his thick fingers idly traced the faded gold lettering on the cover of Zach's paperback. When he looked up and saw Zach approaching, his focus snapped immediately to him. 

He didn’t say a word to the guy in the tank top; he just gave him a short, dismissive shake of his head—a silent dismissal that sent the guy packing without a fuss. The guy took the hint and vanished.

Zach slid back onto his stool. He let out a long breath he didn't realize he'd been holding.

Leo turned toward him, one thick eyebrow raised and a slow, knowing smirk on his handsome, frat-bro face.

“Lover’s spat?” he asked.

Zach froze for half a second, then forced a scoff.

“What? No,” he said, a little too quickly. He grabbed his IPA and took a long drink. “It’s nothing like that.”

Leo didn’t look convinced. He leaned in a little closer, his gravelly voice dropping just enough to stay between them. “Could’ve fooled me.”

Before Zach could come up with a defense, the screech of microphone feedback ripped through the bar, making half the crowd wince and cover their ears.

---

Chapter 4: Oedipal Opera

On the plywood stage in the corner, the host tapped the mic with a lacquered, razor-sharp fingernail. She wore a plush, cropped marabou jacket over a silk slip that showed off miles of long legs ending in lethal stilettos. Her dark hair was teased high enough to genuinely threaten the acoustic ceiling tiles. Her eyes were heavy-lidded, her cheeks aggressively contoured, and a thick, wet shine coated her lips. 

“Welcome, welcome, you sweaty sons and secret admirers, to The Seahorse Father’s Day Strip-Off!”

She paused, letting the crowd hoot and holler before stretching to her full, theatrical height. “I’m Elektra Complex—your Mother of Ceremonies, your guide, your analyst, your Greek chorus. I am here to narrate the psychodrama, spill the tea, and maybe throw a little shade where it’s due.”

She grinned broadly, teeth gleaming under the stage lights. “Because, darlings, tonight’s not just a strip contest. It’s an Oedipal opera wrapped in muscle and bad decisions. Fathers, sons, and the messy dance of wanting, rejecting—and maybe a little bit of loving too much.”

"I love my daddy!" a guy in a harness yelled from the back of the room.

"Don't cheer, it's a clinical diagnosis," Elektra shot back without missing a beat.

She paused, letting the weight of her words settle onto the eager, boozy audience.

“But tonight, we are bypassing years of expensive therapy. We’re all chasing that first, untouchable blueprint of masculinity—the man who stood just out of reach, defining what 'strong' looked like before we even knew what 'wanting' meant. Why dig for answers when you can just shove a single into the waistband of a man who—if you squint—looks exactly like that first, forbidden lesson you learned one very, very hot summer?”

The crowd roared in agreement.  "Oh, so much delicious conflict," she purred, pacing the length of the stage, a predatory, slow-motion strut.

“Mother’s rules are simple," Elektra continued, raising a lacquered claw. "No grabbing Daddy’s goods—these men are mine for the night, and I don't share my toys. Try it, and my bouncers will toss you out faster than your daddy’s Viagra prescription runs out. Hands are for tips only—the paper kind. And fellas, keep it professional. No hole, no pole. Save the messy stuff for the parking lot where I don't have to watch you ruin the upholstery."

A few playful boos rippled through the crowd, but she was already moving on, pointing a nail at the sound booth in the corner. "Hit the music. Let's bring out our first disappointment. He's your best friend’s dad who coached Little League, leaving you clutching your wood in your trembling hand! Give it up for Batter Up!"

The rhythmic clapping and the unmistakable, pulsing drum intro of a remixed Glory Days thumped through the speakers. A guy in his forties with a confident smirk under a thick mustache bounded onto the stage. He was wearing a half-unbuttoned pinstriped baseball jersey that put his hairy chest on display, and painfully short athletic shorts that clung to his thighs. He strutted to the edge of the plywood with a wooden bat draped casually across the back of his shoulders, his arms hooked over the ends, and slowly turned to strike a cocky, arrogant pose for the screaming front row.

Zach watched the spectacle from the distance of his barstool, a reluctant grin tugging at his mouth. He leaned toward Leo, shouting over the bass. "She's good."

Leo frowned, his brow furrowing as he looked from the stage to the host. "I don't really get drag," he muttered, shaking his head. "Seems like a lot of effort for a guy in a wig."

Zach just chuckled. "It's theater, Leo."

Over on the stage, Batter Up slowly dragged his pinstriped jersey over his head, revealing his lean, hairy torso. With the jersey tossed into the crowd, he grabbed his wooden bat, grinding his hips against the wood as he leaned over the edge of the stage. The guys in the pit pressed up to the plywood, hands reaching up to slide folded bills down the elastic of his pinstriped baseball pants, pulling the fabric away from his hips just far enough to slip the cash inside. 

Leo shifted his weight on his stool, his thigh pressing firmly against Zach’s. "You into baseball?" Leo asked, dropping his gravelly voice into a near-theater whisper just to be heard over the thumping bass.

"Not my sport," Zach said, taking a sip of his beer. He didn't move his leg away.

"What is your sport?" Leo asked. He leaned in closer, resting a thick, vein-corded arm on the bar behind Zach, effectively fencing him in.

Zach took a moment to appreciate the sheer, beautiful simplicity of the guy. Leo's idea of wit was leaning on bad pickup lines, and that was exactly what Zach wanted. He just needed a guy with biceps the size of footballs to wipe the lingering irritation of his father completely from his brain.

"Right now," Zach murmured, his eyes dropping to the hard line of Leo's jaw and then to his mouth, "I'm mostly focused on indoor activities."

Leo grinned, a slow shift of his face that made him look stupidly handsome.

They stayed locked in their own private orbit as Batter Up finished his routine, making his rounds to collect the last of his tips before taking a bow. Elektra stepped back into the spotlight.

"Tragic," she deadpanned into the mic as the applause dwindled. "Next up, we have Divorced Dad. He’s a walking mid-life crisis armed with weekend custody, a fridge full of Capri Sun, and he’s fully prepared to let you stay up past your bedtime on those lonely nights when he notices how much you look like your mom. Give it up for him!"

The smooth, iconic opening beat of George Michael’s Father Figure washed over the room.

A guy stepped into the lights wearing painfully stiff pleated khakis, a tucked-in pastel polo, thick-rimmed glasses, and those awful, chunky sneaker-shoe hybrids. The crowd chuckled, offering up a few scattered, ironic cheers.

But the second the bassline dropped, the guy grabbed the hem of the pastel polo and yanked it over his head in one smooth motion, revealing a thickly built physique. He flexed, delivering a synchronized pec bounce right on the beat, and the crowd went absolutely feral.

Leo’s hand dropped from the bar, coming to rest casually on Zach’s waist. His thumb pressed right into Zach' through his tee. "I got a Jeep out back," Leo murmured. "We could get out of here and skip the rest of the show."

On stage, Divorced Dad proved to be a revelation. He gripped the outer seams of his pleated khakis and ripped them cleanly away at the sides with a sharp, theatrical snap, revealing a neon-pink g-string. He dropped his glasses with a finality that signaled the suburban act was over, then threw himself flat onto the plywood stage. He launched into a slow version of the worm, grinding his pelvis into the floorboards to the rhythm and showcasing the raw power of his core.

Rolling back up into a standing flex, he worked the edge of the stage in nothing but the tiny g-string and his black dress socks. He squatted low, letting the screaming front row stuff crumpled fives and tens straight into the strained strings at his hips, the neon elastic snapping back against his skin with every deposit.

Leo chuckled, a deep vibration against Zach's shoulder. "Now he’s good," he muttered, watching the spectacle. His fingers hooked into Zach's belt loop, giving a firm, possessive tug.

Zach closed his eyes for a second, letting the uncomplicated lust take over. There was no family drama here, no baggage. Just a very muscular, very willing guy offering an easy out.

"Get ready to make a break for it between acts," Zach murmured, leaning back into the weight of Leo's hand.

On stage, Divorced Dad scooped up his earnings and jogged off to wild applause.

"Well, well, well," Elektra purred over the speakers, her amplified voice cutting through the tension at the bar. She dramatically unhooked the clasp of her marabou jacket and let it drop to the floor, revealing that the front of her silk slip was entirely covered in a sequined portrait of Sigmund Freud.

The crowd erupted into oohs and ahs.

"Ah, Siggy. The only man who truly understood the clientele of this establishment," Elektra quipped, adjusting her bodice. "But hold onto your daddy issues, boys, because it seems we have a late entry. A gentleman just tried to buy his way to the front with a crisp twenty-dollar bill. Honestly? It’s dad-cheap—barely covers the service fee—but I respect the hustle."

Leo was halfway up from his stool when Zach went perfectly, unnaturally still—his spidey sense suddenly blaring a five-alarm warning.

"He didn't give a theme," Elektra said to the crowd, stepping back toward the speaker stack as the unmistakable, grinding intro of Salt-N-Pepa's Whatta Man began to swell. She waved the twenty in the air, improvising. "But let's be honest, looking like that, he doesn't need one. So ladies and gentlemen, please welcome…” She gestured grandly as she made it up on the spot. “Twenty Dollar Bill!"

Zach knew it had to be him before Bill strutted out of the shadows onto the plywood stage.

He wasn't playing a character. He was just himself—in his tight white tee, painted-on dark jeans, spotless white Dunks, and his faded cap.

Leo stopped pulling on Zach's belt loop. He straightened up, brow furrowing as his eyes locked onto the stage.

"Hey," Leo said, his gravelly voice suddenly sharp. He pointed toward the blinding stage lights with his square jaw. "That's your guy."

Zach stared straight ahead, entirely paralyzed, watching his father step into the blinding spotlight. Bill didn't start stripping immediately. He just stood there, cracked his gum with a sharp, echoing snap, and grinned at the roaring room like he had been born for it.

"Yeah," Zach said, his voice entirely flat. “That’s him.”

He picked up his IPA and looked over his shoulder to catch the bartender's eye for another.

It was going to be a very long night.

---

Chapter 5: Pocket Change

Bill squinted out at the crowd, letting the bass of Whatta Man thump through the floorboards, then leaned down toward the microphone stand. “Hey,” he said. “I’m Bill.”

A ripple of nervous laughter moved through the crowd. Bill just chuckled, the deep sound amplified over the speakers, and shook his head.

“Alright, alright. Don’t all cheer at once.”

He hooked his thumbs under the hem of his tight white t-shirt and slowly dragged it upward, revealing the solid core of his stomach and the clean ridges of his six-pack. Gold-blond hair caught the harsh stage lights as he moved. A low murmur rippled through the crowd that Zach, even sitting far back at the bar, could feel vibrating in his bones.

Bill glanced down at himself, then back out at the audience with a knowing smirk. “Like that?”

He started to pull the shirt the rest of the way over his head, but he did it so the fabric stretched so tight across his lats that it caught. He jerked and yanked at the cotton, the exaggerated effort knocking his faded baseball cap right off his head, but Bill’s hand shot out, catching the brim effortlessly mid-air before it could hit the plywood.

Bill played up the dumb himbo act to absolute perfection, twisting back and forth against the fabric, perfectly aware that the movement put the deep V of his Adonis belt on full, glorious display.

When he’d milked that particular “predicament,” Bill let the hem drop back down. He hooked two thick fingers into the collar of the shirt, gave a low grunt, and delivered one hard yank.

Nothing happened.

He let out a theatrical huff, rolling his shoulders in a slow, purely decorative stretch that went absolutely nowhere but sent another wave of heat through the room. Then, with a wink to the front row, he dug his hands back in for the real thing.

The cotton shredded cleanly down the middle as he flexed his chest and arms, thick blue veins in his forearms popping. With a playful smirk, he shrugged out of the torn shirt, one tan shoulder at a time. He wadded it up and tossed it into the crowd.

Someone in the second row caught it and immediately started waving it like a victory flag. Bill cracked his gum with a sharp snap, rolling his shoulders and flexing as the cheers grew.

Bill laughed, setting his cap on the amp behind him before bending down to deal with his white Dunks. He made a show of struggling to pull one off, gripping the heel and hopping comically on one foot—a deliberately clumsy, dad-like maneuver that just so happened to showcase the powerful sweep of his hamstrings. Bill never skipped leg day, and he knew exactly what he was doing.

He kicked off one shoe, then the other, soaking up the applause before standing straight again. He popped the metal button of his dark jeans, unzipping the snug denim before hooking his thumbs into the waistband and shoving them down.

The denim caught stubbornly over the round shelf of his glutes, dipping just low enough in the front to reveal the thick white waistband and straps of a simple athletic jockstrap.

The bar exploded.

Elektra’s voice rang out over the speakers, dripping with theatrical insight. “Look at that, darlings—the ‘stumbling dad.’ It’s not a loss of balance; it’s a tactical maneuver. He’s taking the mundane, lumbering reality of middle-age manhood and turning it into a flex. It’s a masterclass in weaponized fatherhood.”

Bill grinned wider as he turned slowly, letting everyone in the room get a very good look at his bare ass framed by the bright white straps.

“That’s more like it,” he called out, his booming voice carrying easily over the noise of the crowd. “Knew you had it in you.”

He fought the snug denim down each powerfully built leg, stepping out of the jeans completely to stand under the harsh spotlight in nothing but his white jockstrap. With a final, triumphant wink at the roaring room, Bill snatched his faded cap off the amp and tossed it like a frisbee deep into the sea of grabbing hands.

Beside Zach, Leo had gone quiet.

While the crowd was still cheering, Leo leaned in close, his breath warm against Zach’s ear.

“Hey,” he said. “Give me your hand.”

Zach turned his head slightly. He knew exactly what kind of guy Leo was—arrogant, forward, the type he usually went for when he wanted something quick and dirty. Normally, he would’ve already been thinking about dragging a guy like this somewhere private, but tonight everything felt entirely off.

He let Leo take his wrist and guide his hand down between them. Leo slipped Zach’s fingers right into the front pocket of his jeans.

The pocket was completely empty. No liner. Just warm denim and the thick, hard shape of Leo’s cock underneath.

Zach’s breath caught.

Leo’s smile widened, his jaw squaring off as he realized he’d caught Zach off guard. He pressed Zach’s hand more firmly against his erection, letting him feel exactly how hard he already was. He gave a slow, deliberate roll of his hips, grinding his cock directly into Zach’s palm.

“Been like this since that guy on stage took his shirt off,” Leo murmured, his gravelly voice barely audible over the music. “He’s the type who doesn't skip a single day."

Zach could feel the hard cock throbbing against his skin. Part of him wanted to curl his fingers around it properly, maybe even pull Leo’s zipper down right there in the shadows of the bar. He’d done dirtier things in darker corners with guys like this before.

But then his eyes flicked back to the stage.

Bill was making his rounds, prowling the edge of the plywood with the stride of a man who owned the floor. He traced the ridges of his serratus along his ribs with a thumb, then gave his pale ass a firm slap that echoed over the bass, drawing a fresh wave of whistles from the pit.

He didn't bother with a fake bashful act—he just chewed his gum, looking out at the crowd, gold chest hair matted with sweat under the lights, and the bright white fabric of his jockstrap strained to contain the crowded bulge at the front.

Leo gave another slow grind into Zach’s hand.

“Only reason I’m not dragging you outside right now,” Leo said, “is because I kinda wanna watch that old guy finish his little show first.”

Zach’s fingers stayed exactly where they were, loosely curled around Leo’s cock through the slit in the pocket, but his attention kept drifting back to the stage. To Bill.

Leo noticed.

He let out a low, amused breath. “Damn. You’re really into the show, huh?”

Zach didn’t answer.

Across the room, Bill tapped his hip to let a guy in the front row tuck a folded ten into his jockstrap. But his attention was drifting. He was squinting past the blinding stage lights, his pale eyes straying over the pool tables and scanning the dark room. He was looking all the way to the back. Looking directly toward the bar.

Up near the speaker stack, Elektra caught the blatant shift in his focus.

“I see Daddy's eyes wandering to the back!” Elektra’s voice cut through the bass, absolutely delighted. “In this establishment, the bar stools double as the cuck chairs. And who better to put in the seat of honor than the one whose approval you’re starving for? A little validation from the toughest critic in the room, perhaps?”

Right as the crowd cheered, Bill found exactly what he was looking for. His pale eyes locked onto Zach through the gloom of the bar.

Without thinking, Zach’s fingers clenched shut, gripping Leo’s erection hard.

Leo let out a sharp, surprised intake of breath, his hips jerking slightly against Zach's hand, but Zach didn't even look at him.

On stage, the cocky, generalized performer grin on Bill's face shifted, widening into something more focused.

Without breaking eye contact, Bill took a single step back from the edge of the plywood, planted his feet, and jumped straight off the stage, plunging into the hungry crowd.

---

Chapter 6: The Market Rate

Bill didn’t just walk into the crowd—he waded into it like a politician working a rope line, if the politician happened to be wearing nothing but a white jockstrap, white sneakers, and a devastating smile.

Someone grabbed his chest, fingers dragging through the gold hair and giving his pec a rough squeeze. Another slid a palm straight down his stomach and kept going, cupping him through the thin fabric of the jockstrap. Bill didn’t pull away. He leaned into it, rolling his hips in a slow, filthy grind as more people closed in.

"Come on, boys," Bill called out, laughing loudly over the thud of the music. "Don't be shy."

Guys eagerly obliged, shoving crumpled bills into the white elastic waistband of his jock. Then, perched on a stool, an impeccably dressed gentleman—a silver fox easily old enough to be Bill’s dad—calmly raised a crisp twenty-dollar bill.

Bill knew an opportunity when he saw it.

He strutted over, threw a leg over the man’s thigh, straddled it effortlessly. He grabbed the older guy firmly by the back of the neck and pulled him into a hard, open-mouthed kiss—deep, filthy, and unapologetic. While they kissed, the man shoved the twenty straight down the front of Bill’s jockstrap, his other hand blindly cupping the bulge to hold it in place as he stuffed the money deep inside.

When Bill broke away with a cocky wink, the crowd hooted. The market rate had been set. 

Another twenty went up. Bill yanked a heavy-set bear with a thick beard into a deep, sloppy kiss, letting the guy reach straight into his jock to tuck the bill in. A young twink in a mesh shirt held up a twenty, and Bill grabbed him by the waist, holding him chest to chest while the kid squeezed his flexed bicep. 

It quickly became obvious that whether they were older, younger, skinny, fat or fit—it didn’t matter. Bill was entirely indiscriminate, happily taking all comers.

"What the hell," Zach whispered, his brow furrowing in genuine consternation. "She literally just said no touching."

A bald, paunchy guy grabbed two full handfuls of Bill’s bare ass and ground against him; Bill just turned and laughed over his shoulder. When a fifty went up, Bill let a guy bury his face between his pecs while another tucked a twenty in the rear of his strap. Bill made sure every single customer got exactly what they paid for.

Over the thud of the music, Elektra’s voice purred through the speakers. "Easy now, boys, my security is getting a little too excited back there. Let's remember, this piece of meat is someone’s daddy—imagine that boy’s face, watching you use him for what he is."

Zach, in fact, watched, unable to look away.

He had always pictured Bill’s forays into gay bars in the safest way possible—as trading beers for looks and quick gropes. Maybe as “trade.” The untouchable guy who stayed mostly clothed and let someone service him in the dark. That version had felt easier to file away.

But watching him now—letting strangers openly feel him up like he was something to be passed around—intrusive, unwanted thoughts began firing in Zach’s brain. Bill on his knees. On his back. Bill grinning while a bunch of guys used him.

The thought made his cock twitch hard in his jeans, which only made him more annoyed with himself.

He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to force the images out. When he opened them again, the crowd had cleared a small circle. Bill had dropped to the bare floorboards and was doing rapid-fire clapping push-ups, launching his upper body into the air and slapping his hands together between every rep as the guys around him chanted the count, their voices rising with every movement.

"Twenty-eight... twenty-nine... thirty!"

Bill bounded up onto his feet on the final beat—his pecs swollen and pumped tight with blood, glistening under the stage lights. He swiped a forearm across his brow, wiping away the sweat, and shot the room a wide, shit-eating grin—that untroubled smile that had been his signature for as long as Zach could remember. 

He looked like he could do another fifty easily, feeding off the wild applause like he owned the oxygen in the room.

Leo’s cock throbbed in Zach’s grip through the open pocket.

Beside him, Leo leaned in. “I’ll bet I could take you out to the parking lot and pork you right in my Jeep.”

Zach stopped breathing for a full second.

“…Pork?” he repeated, not sure he’d heard right. "Pork. Really?"

Leo watched his face, eyes sharp and amused. Zach’s thumb caught just under the head of Leo’s fat cock.

“Yeah,” Leo said, grinning. “You like that talk, you dirty little slut?”

Zach looked out at the pit one more time. Bill was deep in it now, hands clasped behind his head, slowly thrusting his hips to the rhythm while the crowd pressed in on him, shoving cash into his waistband and dragging hands over his gleaming, sweat-slicked ribs. He looked like he was vibrating with the music, totally lost in the thrill of being wanted.

Zach swallowed hard. “…Yeah.”

Leo’s grin widened, slow and satisfied. “I knew it. Let’s get out of here.”

They both began to rise, but the energy in the room took a sudden turn. Bill shifted gears, moving out of the pit in a half-dance, half-stride, his stuffed pouch bouncing with every step.

He passed out of the pit area, heading into the main bar as a dozen new hands reached for him. He was practically shedding cash; bills were fluttering from his overloaded jockstrap like confetti, and he didn't even bother to tuck them in. He caught an eager, wide-eyed guy in a button-down for a wet kiss, guiding the man’s arm by the wrist as he shoved a crumpled twenty into his front elastic. 

"Oh my," Elektra purred over the speakers, her voice dripping with amused shock. "Darlings, we have free-range beef on the hoof. The Daddy has breached the pit, and I think he’s decided he’s done with the stage. We are officially off-script, boys! Where is Daddy going? I don't know about the rest of you, but I am absolutely dying to see."

Zach froze for a moment and then sank back onto the stool, his heart dancing in a dizzying mix of dread and anticipation. He clutched his paperback to his chest, holding it like a shield as Bill began his slow, purposeful advance.

---

Chapter 7: Pubic Relations

Guys seated along the long bartop swiveled on their stools, their conversations dying out as he moved through them slowly, like he knew every single eye in the room was fixed on him.

He was shining with sweat—his chest and arms pumped, the V of his torso on full display  under the low neon lights. His bright white jockstrap was overstuffed, ones, fives, and twenties fluttering or crumpled and crammed into the pouch until the thin fabric strained.

Zach’s pulse kicked hard in a deafening, conflicting rhythm.

No. No, no, no. Leave me out of this.

But right underneath the dread, was that same dark anticipation.

Yes. Yes, yes, yes.

Bill didn’t say a word. He just stood right in front of Zach, grinning, and opened his muscled arms wide in a blatant invitation. Zach could read every single nuance of that expectant look.

Come on, kid. Don’t let me down.

From the stage, Elektra’s voice cut through the noise. The bright, theatrical lilt was completely gone, dropping into a low, rumbling purr that vibrated through the speakers.

“And there it is, darlings. Forget the judges. Forget the applause. There is absolutely nothing more delicious than the tension between a man who knows exactly what he wants, and the boy who is fighting so desperately not to give it to him. Let's see who breaks first.”

Behind the bar, the cute bartender with the dimples stood frozen with a bottle of vodka in one hand, watching the standoff along with half the bar.

Zach didn’t move. But Bill wasn't entirely still. His hips rocked in a slow, barely perceptible sway that perfectly caught the thud of the bass. His chest rose and fell, the gold hair catching the neon light. Zach swallowed hard, fighting desperately to keep his eyes locked on that stupid, beautiful grin instead of letting his gaze drop to the overstuffed white pouch hovering right in front of him.

Bill just wiggled his eyebrows and tapped his hip. Waiting.

A murmur rippled through the crowd, quickly building into a rhythmic, demanding chant.

“TWEN-TY! TWEN-TY! TWEN-TY!”

Bill stayed there, waiting. He looked to Zach like a living sculpture—but one in need of constant chiseling, and Zach was the only one who could finish the masterpiece.

Zach shoved his trembling hand into the front pocket of his jeans, bypassed his keys, found a crumpled twenty-dollar bill, and pulled it out.

Bill stepped closer, right between Zach’s spread knees, eyes locked. Zach reached out blindly to cup the pouch, feeling the weight as he held it firmly in place. He shoved the twenty straight down into the front of the jockstrap. As he pushed the bill deep inside, his knuckles dragged against the coarse brush of gold pubic hair at the base of Bill’s cock.

Bill’s grin widened.

He reached out and took Zach’s face in both of his hands. His palms were hot and damp against Zach’s cheeks. Without hesitation, Bill leaned in and pressed their lips together.

It was dry at first, just a firm press of lips, but then Bill's mouth opened, inviting the hot, wet slide of tongues. He tasted like beer and sharp mint gum.

Zach’s book hit the barroom floor with a soft thud.

His hands came up and grabbed Bill by the waist, pulling him in closer. His thighs came together, locking Bill in place.

It was easily the longest, deepest kiss of Bill's entire routine. In the distance, there was cheering, but it was entirely drowned out by the steady beat of Zach’s heart in his ears, the heat of Bill’s chest against his, and the thick bulge of the jockstrap grinding in slow, filthy little circles against the hardness of Zach’s crotch.

When they finally broke apart, Zach took a deep, open mouthed breath. The deafening roar of the bar came rushing back into his ears all at once—the cheering and the thumping bass crashed over him and shattered the bubble.

Bill pulled back just enough to look Zach in the eye, his hands still cradling Zach's face. His grin was wide, unapologetic, and unbearably fond.

“That’s my boy,” he said, his voice raised over the din, but meant only for Zach. Then he threw a lazy, amused glance over Zach's shoulder at Leo. "Don't stay out all night."

Then he released him, gave the roaring crowd a casual two-fingered salute, and turned away. Recognizing his cue, the DJ instantly blasted Bill's outro music, cranking the grinding bass of Whatta Man to absolute ear-splitting volumes to hype the crowd as Bill melted back into the sea of groping hands and flashing strobe lights.

The deafening sound slammed against the walls of the bar. Leo leaned over, having to close the distance completely. He put his mouth right next to Zach’s ear just to be heard over the noise.

“DAMN!” Leo shouted, his gravelly voice vibrating against Zach’s jaw. “IS HE YOUR EX?”

Zach wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and shook his head.

“HE’S MY DAD!” he yelled back.

Leo frowned. He pointed a finger at his own ear and shook his head. The music was still too loud.

“WHAT?”

“HE’S MY DAD!”

“BAD?”

Zach took a deep, frustrated breath. Just as he opened his mouth to scream at the top of his lungs, the DJ cut the track to introduce the next act, plunging the bar into silence.

“HE’S MY DAD!”

Zach’s voice echoed off the exposed rafters.

Every head in The Seahorse snapped toward the back bar. The bartender with the dimples slowly lowered the vodka bottle, his eyebrows raised high behind his dark frames.

Up on the stage, Elektra Complex slowly lowered the microphone from her lips. She stared at Zach through the sudden, suffocating quiet, her lacquered nails frozen in mid-air.

“Well,” she murmured, her voice amplified through the speakers. “Plot twist by Sophocles. Let’s hear it for Twenty Dollar Bill, gentlemen!”

Leo blinked. He looked out at the crowded floor where Bill had disappeared, then looked back at Zach, processing the information with the slow, blinking confusion of a concussed linebacker

“That’s weird,” he said.

Zach didn’t argue. He was rock hard, completely flushed, and dizzy with way too many feelings at once—arousal, embarrassment, lingering anger, and the reckless need to get fucked before he spontaneously combusted.

He turned to Leo.

“Where’s your Jeep?”

Leo’s mouth twitched, like he wasn’t entirely sure if this was finally happening.

“Out back.”

Zach gave him a quick, ruthless once-over—the thick neck, the polo stretched dangerously tight over those huge pecs, the cocky, vacant energy. A total meathead. Exactly what he needed to wipe his brain clean.

He swooped down, grabbing his battered copy of Pride & Prejudice off the sticky barroom floor, and tucked it firmly under his arm.

“Let’s go.”

"About fuckin' time," Leo said as he rose to his feet

---

Chapter 8: The Backseat

The air inside Leo’s Jeep heated with staggering speed. The windows fogged over in seconds. Zach was on his back across the rear bench seat, folded nearly in half with his legs wrapped tight around Leo’s hips as they ground into him. His battered copy of Pride & Prejudice had already slid onto the floorboards. They were in a clumsy, desperate tangle, tongues wrestling hot and wet as their lips smacked in the dark.

“You’ve been begging for this since we sat down,” Leo groaned against Zach’s mouth, one hand already shoving Zach’s t-shirt up to his armpits.

Zach didn’t answer with words. He just grabbed the front of Leo’s tight polo with both hands and yanked him down harder, grinding his hips up so the hard ridge of Leo’s cock dragged against him through their jeans. The vinyl seat was already sticky under Zach’s back.

He shoved the front of Leo’s shirt up to reveal big meaty pecs and pink nipples. For a split second, Bill’s voice echoed unhelpfully in the back of his mind—All vanity weight and steroid puff, kid. Dude's got no functional density.

Zach forcefully shoved the thought aside, absolutely desperate to banish his dad from the backseat.

“Your Jeep is a piece of shit,” Zach muttered breathlessly as he leaned up to catch the thick, hard nipple in his mouth.

Leo’s breath caught and one hand shot up to grip the back of Zach’s neck, pulling him against his pec.

“Yeah… You like that titty, daddy’s boy?” he grunted.

Zach groaned around it in response, sucking harder.

Leo pulled him off, leaving his nipple hard and wet. He pushed Zach firmly back down against the seat and his tee up under his armpits. His gaze lingered on Zach’s chest and stomach. He ran a large hand over the skin, his fingers tracing the ropey definition of Zach’s obliques and the cut abs.

"You're built tight," Leo murmured. "I knew you were hot sitting at the bar, but you hide it under that shirt. You've been trained right."

The intrusive thought hit Zach so hard it actually materialized. In the pitch-black front passenger seat, the phantom image of Bill suddenly flickered into existence, shirtless and casually thumbing through a thick wad of crumpled tip money. He paused his counting, glanced back over his shoulder at the two of them, and nodded with smug, overwhelming pride. Damn right he is. Good foundation. Great genetics. Yeah, I did that.

Zach squeezed his eyes shut with a helpless groan. He desperately tried to shake the vivid hallucination of his father beaming from the front seat, but the bizarre psychological collision of getting stripped by an aging frat bro while his dad literally watched from the sidelines only made his face burn hotter.

Leo, completely oblivious, worked Zach’s belt open and shoved both hands into his waistband, yanking jeans and briefs down in one rough motion. The denim caught tight around Zach’s knees. Leo hooked his big hands around Zach’s hobbled legs and pulled them all the way up until they were pressed tight against Leo’s chest, ass completely exposed in the cramped backseat.

The phantom image of his dad shifted in the front seat. Bill draped one heavy forearm casually over the headrest and settled in to watch.

Awful lot of tension in those hamstrings, kid, Bill’s voice advised from the front seat. Remember to breathe through the stretch.

“Fuck, look at that,” Leo muttered, staring down at Zach’s cock leaking precum onto his stomach.

He brought his hand to his mouth, spat a thick glob of saliva into his palm, and dragged two wet fingers straight over Zach’s hole before pushing both of them in without warning.

Zach’s back arched hard off the seat. The sharp, sudden heat of the intrusion acted like a stronger, competing signal, making the phantom image of his dad in the front seat flicker to static and drop out. “Shit—!”

“Yeah,” Leo grunted, already working his fingers in and out in short, rough strokes. “Knew you’d open up easy for me.”

Zach didn’t pull away. Instead, he pushed his hips down onto Leo’s fingers with a low, hungry groan, chasing the stretch. His hole clenched around the thick digits like his body already knew what it wanted.

They grinned at each other in the dim light of the lot. The front passenger seat was empty, the phantom of Zach’s father completely, blessedly gone. For the first time all night, it was just the two of them.

Leo pulled his fingers free, quickly unbuckled his own belt, and shoved his jeans down his thighs. His cock sprang free—thick, deeply flushed, and heavy. Even in the dim light Zach could see Leo was meticulously manscaped, a neatly trimmed bush and completely shaved balls making that fat cock look even bigger. The dome at the top was smooth and glistening.

He reached down to dig a small, full bottle of clear lube out of his intact front pocket, then shoved the denim the rest of the way down around his shins.

“Just refilled,” he smirked, holding up the bottle.

He popped the cap, poured a generous amount into his palm, and carelessly tossed the bottle over his shoulder into the front passenger seat. He stroked the thick gel up and down his shaft until it was shiny and dripping. Then he wrapped one arm around Zach’s bound legs, hiked them tight against his chest, and lined himself up.

“Let’s see how much of this you can take,” Leo said, his voice low and certain.

He didn’t ease in. He just pushed.

The stretch was sudden and intense. Zach’s mouth fell open on a choked, strangled gasp as Leo’s thick cock forced its way inside and kept going, splitting him open until Leo’s hips were flush against his ass and every inch was buried deep.

Zach’s fingers dug hard into Leo’s sides. His body struggled for a few frantic seconds, almost too much—then something in him gave. The pressure faded out and in its place was a deep, profound pleasure—like Leo in him was locking into place, right where he belonged.

Zach let out a rough, desperate sound and pounded his fist once against Leo’s dense, sweaty pec. “Fuck me,” he groaned.

Seeing the shift, feeling it around his cock, Leo’s eyes flashed with satisfaction. “Yeah,” he growled, already pulling his hips back and driving in again. “There it is.”

He shifted his grip, sliding his rough hands down to grab the backs of Zach’s hamstrings. With a grunt, Leo shoved Zach’s pants-bound legs hard downward, pinning his thighs flat against his own chest. The brutal shift folded Zach completely in half, exposing him perfectly and angling his pelvis so every thrust sank impossibly deeper.

A staccato series of sharp, white-hot spikes of pleasure shot straight up Zach’s spine. His head tipped back against the seat, a ragged groan tearing out of him. The sound was instantly swallowed by the wet squelch of the lube as Leo pulled all the way back and slammed in again, establishing a punishing new rhythm.

The Jeep rocked hard on its suspension with every thrust. The frame creaked. The vinyl seat squeaked under Zach’s back, and skin slapped wetly in the humid dark. 

Leo loomed over him, sweat soaking into the bunched-up polo under his armpits. His knees kept slamming against the underside of the seat and his shaved balls swung and smacked against Zach’s ass with every stroke.

“Knew you’d be tight,” Leo panted, hips snapping forward. “Knew you could take cock like you were made for it.”

Folded up like a pretzel, Zach’s cock was completely trapped against his stomach beneath the weight of his own compressed thighs. Desperate for friction, he squeezed his hand down into the suffocatingly tight gap between his legs and chest, wedging his fingers around his leaking cock and jerking himself in frantic time with Leo’s rhythm.

Leo shifted his angle slightly and started hitting Zach’s prostate on every stroke. Zach’s eyes rolled back, his head tipping helplessly against the vinyl, completely blissing out.

He hated to admit it, but beneath all the cocky, vacant posturing, Leo was very, very good at this. He didn't just have the size—though he had that. He had the exact right rhythm, fucking with a ruthless precision that short-circuited every rational thought left in Zach's brain. His free hand scrabbled blindly at Leo’s shoulder.

Leo grinned in the dark. He pressed his hips down hard, grinding directly into that spot. "Nailing it?" he demanded.

Zach couldn't even form a coherent word. He just nodded frantically, his jaw hanging slack as he dug his fingers into Leo's side, desperate for him to keep going.

“Knew you’d like it,” Leo said, voice rough and knowing. “Knew this greedy fucking hole would open right up for me.”

Leo cleared his throat with a wet rasp and hawked up a thick wad of spit. He held it, his dark eyes locked on Zach’s as his hips kept pumping, waiting for a sign.

It should have killed the mood. It should have snapped Zach back to reality. Instead, it sent a jolt straight to his cock.

He parted his lips, tilting his chin up in a silent, eager demand.

Leo spat, shooting the thick glob directly into Zach's mouth, a wet strand briefly connecting them before it snapped.

"That's it," Leo murmured, his hips snapping forward to drive deep against Zach's prostate at the exact same second.

Zach swallowed it down, his throat working around the warm, slick taste of Leo. His eyes fluttered half-lidded.

Leo let out a rough, satisfied sound. He brought a thumb up to wipe a stray drop from the corner of Zach’s mouth. "Fucking perfect."

For one unguarded fraction of a second, the unexpected softness of the gesture allowed Bill’s voice to echo in the back of Zach’s mind, laced with a sympathetic sigh. Aw, kid…

Zach viciously shoved the thought away. The sheer, raunchy intimacy of the backseat was exactly what he needed to banish his dad for good. His cock jerked hard in his fist, and he pushed his hips up to eagerly meet Leo’s relentless thrusts, desperately using Leo’s body and filthy mouth to completely drown everything else out.

“Fuck me—fuck me—” Zach groaned, his bound legs trembling helplessly under Leo’s hands.

“Gonna cum for me?” Leo grunted. His thrusts grew frantic and uncoordinated. Sweat poured down his thick neck. “Gonna make a fucking mess while I’m buried in your ass? Do it. Cum on my cock.”

The spikes of pleasure came faster, blurring into one continuous crest Zach couldn’t fight. His cock swelled in his hand and thick ropes of cum splattered hot across his own stomach and chest. His whole body locked up, thighs shaking, his hole spasming around the thick shaft still buried inside him. His vision went white at the edges.

“Fuck, yeah,” Leo chuckled, wincing at the tight, rhythmic squeezing around his cock.

Leo dropped his weight and deliberately rode out the spasms. He kept his hips moving in slow, penetrating grinds, dragging his thick cock back and forth through the tight, frantic fluttering of Zach’s climax.

Zach let out a breathless, wrecked whine, his head rolling helplessly against the sticky vinyl through the aftershocks. 

He braced himself for Leo to keep going. But instead of picking up the pace, instead of chasing his own climax, as the last tremor finally started to fade, Leo reached down and, with a wince against the tight grip, pulled out. 

The sudden emptiness made Zach gasp. Between his spread, trembling thighs he could see Leo’s cock hanging, hard and shiny, still rock hard and dripping with lube and the mess from Zach’s hole. Leo’s shaved balls looked full and heavy. He reached down and gave himself one slow, lazy stroke, smearing the shine all over his shaft. He tapped the head against Zach’s gasping hole, teasing it.

Zach stared up at him, dazed and panting, hole clenching around nothing.

“…You didn’t finish.”

Leo shrugged, that same smirk spreading across his face. He gave his cock another slow stroke like he was just getting started.

“Saving it.”

“Saving it? For what?”

Leo wiped sweat off his face with the back of his hand. “Round two.” He glanced toward the bar through the fogged-up window, then looked back down at Zach with that same cocky expression. “Night’s young,” he said with a shrug. “Time to see what else is on offer.”

Zach was still lying there contorted, jeans around his knees, feet pushed up toward the ceiling. His own hot load was plastered across his stomach and hand, and Leo’s spit and lube was rapidly cooling between his cheeks.

The words landed like a bucket of cold water.

Round two. What else is on offer?

He hadn’t been the main event at all. He was just the warm-up.

Leo casually grabbed a small hand towel from the front seat—no doubt kept there for this exact purpose—and began to roughly wipe his cock off.

In the front passenger seat, the phantom image of Bill flickered back into existence. He turned his shoulders around, took in the absolute wreckage of his son in the backseat, and gave a slow, deeply sympathetic shake of his head. He tossed one beefy hand up in a helpless, open-palmed gesture, looking exactly like a coach who just watched his player get completely outplayed and sent to the bench. Tough break, kid.

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Chapter 9: The Parking Lot

Zach sat there in the sudden, jarring quiet as Leo climbed out, the passenger door hanging wide open to let the cool Chicago night air rush into the stifling heat of the Jeep. He was still half-naked, his own cooling cum plastered uncomfortably across his stomach, his legs visibly shaking from being folded up and relentlessly fucked.

He could hear Leo’s footsteps crunching against the loose gravel outside.

Taking a shallow breath, Zach twisted around, awkwardly untangling his feet from his hobbled jeans just to find the floorboards. He snatched Pride & Prejudice from the dirty footwell where it had fallen, and clumsily shimmied to the edge of the seat to step out into the lot.

"Are you serious?" Zach called out, his voice a little hoarse.

Leo was leaning casually against the side of the Jeep, using the small hand towel to briskly wipe down his thick cock and the hand he’d used to lube it. Across the dark expanse of the lot, a muffled, sudden roar drifted through the chilly night air—the crowd inside was still at it, oblivious to the drama unfolding in the alley. 

"Yeah," Leo said, not even looking up. "I usually like to fuck a couple of guys before I lose it."

He looked up then, taking in Zach’s cum-smeared belly, his shrinking cock, and his disheveled hair, and carelessly threw the damp towel at him.

Zach caught it purely on reflex. He stood there for a second, the battered book in one hand and the dirty towel in the other, trying to process the plain, transactional mechanics of that statement.

"Right. Okay," Zach muttered, his brow furrowing as he looked down at the towel. "How often do you do that? How many guys do you fuck in your Jeep on a given night? Mr. put-your-hand-in-my-pocket?"

Leo just shrugged, completely unbothered by the interrogation. "As many as I can," he said flatly. "It's eleven-thirty on a Saturday. You can't expect me to blow my nut on the very first guy."

Zach tucked his paperback tightly under one arm and used the towel to hastily wipe the sticky mess off his stomach. He ran it between his asscheeks, getting the worst of the cooling lube, before throwing the damp towel straight back through the Jeep’s open door. He pulled his briefs and jeans up his thighs and over his hips in one sharp motion, aggressively yanking his zipper up and pulling his t-shirt down. "Good luck with that."

Leo shoved his still-sticky, semi-erect cock back down into his jeans. He adjusted his junk with one rough hand, shifting his hips to make room before he jerked the zipper closed.

"Besides," he added, buckling his belt and smoothing down the tight fabric of his polo shirt. "Figured I'd see if your old man is free."

The residual fog of the hookup vanished instantly, replaced by a sharp spike of adrenaline.

"What?"

Leo didn't bother explaining. He ran his thick fingers through his hair, confidently combing it back into place. From the bar, the sound of boisterous chanting leaked out into the alley.

"You just fucked me in your Jeep," Zach said, his voice tightening in disbelief as he stepped closer, "and now you’re going back inside to try and fuck my dad?"

Leo turned to face him, leaning casually back against the open door of the Jeep. He looked at Zach like Zach was the one being completely unreasonable.

"He’s available," Leo said with an easy shrug.

"He’s almost fifty!"

“But that body.” Leo smirked, entirely shameless. "Besides, I've never done a father and son in one night before."

Zach shook his head. “Jesus Christ.”

Leo actually snorted. "Don’t act like you’re shocked." He took a step toward Zach, dropping the smirk for a dismissive shrug. "Look. Your dad’s an old attention whore. Guys like that just get off on the validation. It's got nothing to do with you. Don’t make a whole thing out of it."

Zach’s jaw locked so tight his teeth ground together.

"I really thought you might be an okay guy," Zach said. The words tasted weak and terribly defensive even as they left his mouth, but he couldn't stop them.

Leo gave him a flat, totally unimpressed look. The harsh, overhead parking lot light caught the sneer of his upper lip.

"No, you didn’t," Leo said bluntly. "You saw a piece of meat you could use to blow off steam because you were having a freakout over your dad. You dragged me out here, got your rocks off, and didn't give a shit if I finished except for your ego. You used me, but now I'm the sleazebag because I’m gonna drag your old man out here to do the exact same thing to him?"

The words instantly triggered the exact same intrusive thoughts he’d been fighting off inside the bar. Bill’s thick, muscular legs shoved up toward the ceiling of the Jeep, his broad back pinned to the sticky vinyl seat while Leo pounded into him. Bill spreading his cheeks, taking that fat cock, and grinning through it. Zach's stomach twisted in a dizzying mix of disgust, anger, and a deeply uncomfortable spike of arousal.

"Please," Leo continued, oblivious to the porno playing in Zach's head. "At least I'm honest about what I'm doing. You're just as bad as he is, you just hide it behind a fucking book."

Leo spun around, shaking his head as if he couldn’t believe he’d gotten sucked into this kind of post-hook-up drama. His dark eyes flicked down to where Zach was clutching his paperback against his chest.

"And Jane Austen?" Leo scoffed. "Overrated. Boring romance. Couldn’t pay me to read that shit."

Zach saw white.

He heard the loose gravel crunch as his sneakers dug in. Felt his hand curl into a tight fist. Before he even knew what his body was doing, his core twisted hard at the hips and his arm flew out in a brutal swing.

His knuckles connected squarely with the side of Leo’s jaw with a solid, ugly crack.

Leo staggered backward with a grunt, one knee buckling and almost dropping to the gravel. At the exact same moment, the impact sent a sharp shockwave radiating up Zach's forearm, lighting up every nerve from his knuckles to his elbow.

"What the FUCK?!" Leo yelled, immediately cupping his face as he scrambled to find his footing.

Zach frantically shook out his right hand, his knuckles already throbbing.

"She’s not a romance writer," Zach snapped, clutching his book even tighter against his ribs with his good arm and taking a defensive step back, having absolutely no clue what was supposed to come next. "Asshole."

Leo spat onto his palm, checked his saliva for blood, and then looked up at Zach. He wasn't even angry. He just looked at Zach with the weariness of someone dealing with an absolute lunatic.

"I don't know who's more fucked up, you or your old man," Leo said, backing quickly toward the driver’s side of the Jeep. "But you definitely deserve each other. Stay the hell away from me."

He shook his head in total disgust, climbed into the driver's seat, and slammed the door hard enough to make the frame rattle. He peeled out of the parking lot without another word, the tires kicking up a spray of loose gravel as he sped off down the alley, leaving Zach alone in the dark.

Zach stood there for a second, listening to the engine fade. He tentatively flexed his fingers and winced hard.

"Ow, ow, ow," he muttered under his breath, violently shaking his hand out again. The pain was sharp and deeply immediate now, radiating stubbornly up his wrist.

From the deep, pitch-black shadows near the bar's industrial dumpsters, a slow, rhythmic clapping began to echo—punctuated by the muffled, thumping bass of the music still pumping from inside the building. 

Zach whipped his head around, wincing as his shoulder pulled.

Bill stepped casually out of the darkness and into the wash of the purple neon bar sign. He was in his jeans, unbuttoned at the top, hanging low on his hips, still shirtless, the cool night air rolling harmlessly off his sweat-sheened shoulders.

He stopped clapping and dropped his hands to his hips. He stood there looking at Zach, his expression a mixture of exasperation and paternal pity.

"If you hadn't done it, I was gonna," Bill said, his voice an easy, familiar rumble in the empty alley. "Guy was a prick. Come on, kid. Let's get you some ice for that hand.”

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Chapter 10: The Bar

The Seahorse had finally started to empty out, looking a lot more like itself again. The grinding bass of the strip tracks had been replaced by a low, steady synth-pop beat, and the blinding stage lights in the corner had been mercifully killed, leaving only the neon glow from the beer signs in the windows.

Zach sat at the edge of the front bar, his elbow resting on the sticky wood as he cradled his throbbing right hand against his chest. His knuckles were already turning an angry, mottled purple across the joints.

Bill sat on the stool next to him, still completely shirtless. He leaned casually on the counter, bare shoulders catching the neon light, looking completely at home.

The bartender with the dark-rimmed glasses walked over. The dimples bracketed his mouth as he handed a bundle of crushed ice, wrapped tightly in a clean white bar towel, across the counter.

"Here you go, Bill," the bartender said. 

"Appreciate it, Cam," Bill said. 

He flashed two thick fingers, and gave a subtle nod toward the cooler and Cam turned, popped the caps off two cold bottles of beer and seamlessly slid them across the wood.

Bill pushed one of the sweating bottles toward his son, then took the ice and pressed it firmly against Zach’s swollen knuckles.

Zach winced, pulling back slightly before Bill’s grip locked around his wrist, holding him effortlessly in place.

"Hold still," Bill ordered.

Zach scowled, looking from his father down the bar to the bartender. He reached out with his good left hand, grabbing the cold neck of his beer. "How do you know his name?"

"Because I asked him," Bill said, casually adjusting the ice pack so it covered the worst of the swelling.

"I've been coming to this bar for three years," Zach said, his voice completely flat. He took a long, resentful pull from his bottle. "I don't know his name."

"That's because you sit in the corner scowling at your books instead of being friendly," Bill said, highly amused. "Try it sometime."

He shifted his weight on the stool, taking a casual swig from his own beer before looking down at Zach with a furrowed brow. "I've gotta say, I'm genuinely fascinated by your priorities, kid. That walking steroid-case tells you he's going to use me for spare parts, and you don't say a word. But he insults some dead English lady, and you throw a right hook?"

"It’s biting social satire, not romance," Zach muttered, staring stubbornly at the rubber bar mat. "And I didn’t even know you knew who she is. Was."

"I listen when you talk," Bill countered, a hint of pride in his rough voice. "But you're lucky he didn't snap you in half. You're a good-looking kid, Zach, but you're a little lightweight for picking bar fights. I could get you on a lifting program. All natty. Put some real bulk on you. You'd pull half the guys in here without having to get your ass kicked in an alley first."

"I don't want to get on a lifting program with you, Bill. I don't want to do chest day with my dad."

"Suit yourself," Bill said, unfazed. He leaned in closer, dropping his voice to a low, conspiratorial rumble. "But if you're done with the Chad, Cam behind the bar has been looking at you for the last twenty minutes. He's a nice guy—not a douchebag like you usually go for."

Zach instinctively glanced down the bar. Cam was polishing a pint glass, and the moment Zach caught his eye, he shied away quickly, the dimples deepening before he went back to his work.

"He's cute," Bill continued, his tone turning thoughtfully speculative. "And I'm warmed up. Maybe the three of us could—"

"No," Zach said sharply, cutting him off before the sentence could fully materialize in the air. "Absolutely not. Do not finish that thought. We are never crossing that line." 

Instantly, his traitorous imagination served up a vivid, unprompted flash of his father’s broad back looming over Cam. As Zach pictured himself stepping up to position himself directly behind Bill, the dimpled bartender peered around Bill's muscled shoulder to give Zach an encouraging thumbs-up.

Zach squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head to dislodge the image.

His brain provided an amendment to his earlier refusal: Probably not.

He took another quick, desperate swallow of his beer just to give himself something else to do.

Bill sighed, his broad shoulders lifting in a heavy shrug. "Just offering options."

Two guys in leather jackets walked past them on their way to the front door. The taller one, sporting a thick handlebar mustache slapped Bill solidly on his bare back.

"Good show tonight, Dollar Bill," the guy said, grinning widely. "You robbed us blind."

"A fool and his money, boys," Bill said, flashing them a brilliant, high-wattage smile.

The other leather guy laughed, giving Bill's bicep a firm, appreciative squeeze. "Don't spend it all in one place, Daddy."

Bill just flexed the arm, completely comfortable with the grope, and gave them a lazy wink. "Drive safe."

Zach watched the exchange, his jaw tightening all over again. "You've been here two hours and you're the mayor."

"Chin up, buttercup," Bill said, turning back and giving Zach’s good shoulder a rough, affectionate shove. "It's not that bad."

"It is that bad, Bill," Zach said. He dropped the exasperation, letting his voice level out into something quieter and far more blunt. "You have to stop doing this. You have to stop turning up everywhere I go. It's exhausting. I just wanted one place where I wasn't competing with you for oxygen."

Bill stopped smiling. The teasing light completely vanished from his eyes. "I am not competing with you, Zach."

"You entered a DILF strip-off in my local bar and made out with half the room," Zach pointed out.

"There was a cash prize! You always say I should earn my own money!"

"You didn't even know there was a prize until after you decided to do it!" Zach snapped back. "You just have to be the center of attention. Every time. Like my high school graduation."

Bill groaned, rolling his eyes toward the stained ceiling tiles. "We are not talking about graduation again."

"I was the valedictorian. And you showed up in a kilt."

"I was honoring my heritage," Bill said defensively.

"We're German."

"Scottish on my mother's side."

"You sat in the very front row of the folding chairs. Right on the center aisle. And you spread your legs."

"It was August! I was airing out."

"You weren't wearing underwear," Zach said, completely deadpan.

Bill crossed his arms over his bare chest, trying very hard to maintain a defensive scowl, but the corner of his mouth was already betraying him with a twitch. "Well."

They were silent for a long moment. Bill reached for his beer, taking a slow, measured drink, and Zach quietly mirrored the motion.

Zach looked down at his iced hand, the absurdity of the memory finally cracking his anger. "I gave the entire commencement sweating, while the principal tried to not look down the barrel of your junk, Bill."

Bill let out a wistful sigh. "It was a good speech."

Zach shook his head, a reluctant, tired smile pulling at his own mouth.

"I don't do it to compete with you, kid," Bill said softly, the humor fading into something deeply earnest. He didn't look at Zach when he said it; he just traced a water ring on the bar with his thumb. "I wish my old man had taken an interest. He didn't even know what grade I was in, let alone show up to my graduation. I just... I like hanging out with you."

The admission took Zach by surprise. He looked at his dad. Sitting there shirtless, a mountain of muscle with crumpled tip money bulging out of his jean pockets, completely ridiculous, entirely inappropriate, and unfailingly genuine.

He lifted his damp beer bottle off the bar, taking one more thoughtful sip before setting it back down.

"I'm sorry you didn't win the contest," Zach offered, eyes turning up to Bill's face. "For what it's worth, you were way better."

Bill paused, the cocky grin wavering into something hesitant and boyish. "You think?"

Zach looked at Bill, waiting for his reaction with that ridiculous, hopeful look on his face. "Are you kidding? Divorced Dad was a pro, but all formula. You were a spectacle. Guys couldn’t keep their eyes off you."

Bill's smile widened into something genuinely delighted. He looked like he had just been handed a gold medal.

Above the bar, the neon Seahorse sign flickered and gave a loud, electrical click as the digital clock on the register rolled over to 12:00 AM.

Technically, it was Sunday.

Zach let out a long, slow breath. He shifted his weight on the stool, feeling the dull, throbbing ache in his iced hand and the strangely comforting exhaustion deep in his bones.

He reached out with his good hand, wrapped his fingers around his sweating, half-empty bottle of beer, and lifted it slightly into the space between them.

"Happy Father's Day, Bill."

Bill smiled. It wasn't the devastating grin he used for the crowd or the guys stuffing twenties down his jock. It was the small, proud one entirely reserved for Zach. He reached out, picked up his own bottle, and tapped the thick glass gently against his son's.

Clink.

"Happy Father's Day to you too, kid," Bill said. He took a final, long pull from his beer, set the empty bottle down on the wood, and clapped Zach on the shoulder. "Let's go home."

END

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