1.
I pushed through the heavy door of The Seahorse on a Saturday night, expecting the usual stale beer smell, but it was the crowd that hit me first.
The Seahorse usually moved slow, even on weekends. Tonight, it was packed—shoulder to shoulder and only getting worse. The regulars were nearly swallowed up by a wave of curious new faces. At the back: a raised platform, spotlights cutting through the haze. There was a buzz in the air—something everyone but me seemed in on.
This was my usual spot, rough around the edges. Not a disco—more like a neighborhood place for oddballs and outcasts: artists, loners, quirky older types. Guys who were a little broken in. It was a place I could be alone, but not lonely.
I wove through the crowd in the long, cavernous space—past the corner where the drag queens held court, the cubbies where the bears usually congregated, the tables where the queer kids gathered—toward the quieter far side, where I had a good view and could keep to myself.
If I met a guy, great. I hated the apps, preferring the heat of meeting in person. Hearing the voice. Seeing how they moved. I wasn’t above a bar pickup, but I always brought an old reliable book, just in case.
A flyer lay on the bar. Neon green, the headline blaring in thick, blocky letters: FATHER’S DAY STRIP OFF!! DILF CONTEST! There was a hand-drawn muscled figure mid-striptease, all exaggerated pecs and package, dollar bills poking from a waistband.
Another flyer was taped crooked to a pillar, and a third hung over the liquor racks—each promising the same spectacle.
What the fuck? My heart gave a funny lurch.
“A DILF stripper contest?” I asked the Saturday bartender—the cute one with the glasses and dimples. I ran my thumb over the cartoon’s lines, thinking I could’ve done a better job.
“Owners want to build the business,” the bartender said, something flexing in his forearm as he nudged his glasses up.
My face must have betrayed my surprise, because he added, “That’s what happens when you don’t come in for a few weeks.”
Funny—I didn’t think the bartender ever even noticed me.
Not the quiet night I planned. I clutched my book, thinking about leaving—until a guy slid onto the next stool. Strong jaw, built. Shirt practically painted on, hugging every steroid-fueled muscle. Eyes a little vacant, but confident—not much going on upstairs, but for a pickup, a body was enough.
“Hey,” I said, leaning in, voice raised over the din. “Here for the show?”
“Hot dads? Sure.” He smirked, holding out a hand. “Leo.”
The zing of interest in my groin was eclipsed by the distinct sensation of someone behind me. Not passing by—lingering, close, waiting. I’d only been there five minutes and already two possibilities? This might turn out to be a good night—for a fleeting moment, the thought of a threesome flashed through my mind. Until I turned, and my stomach dropped from butterflies to somersaults.
Oh no. Him. The inevitable him. Here.
The man was older—late forties—but boyishly handsome. Blond hair cropped close, thinning a bit at the crown, subtly graying at the temples and in the scruff along his chiseled jaw. Densely built—muscle shaped by lottery-winning genes and years of effort. Skin mostly unlined, except for a few crinkles at his eyes from a lifetime of grinning.
“Zachariah,” he said, pulling me into a bear hug—warm, dense, overwhelming. I yielded before I could help myself, like hitting a brick wall with just enough give.
He let go and rested an elbow on the bar. His thin ringer T-shirt was stretched tight across his chest and back, clearly chosen a size too small for maximum effect—showing off the veritable meat rack.
“Bill,” he rumbled, extending a hand to Leo.
I sighed—a reflex honed over years of knowing Bill. Blessing and burden, all in one flexing, grinning package.
“What are you doing here?” I asked. The Seahorse was my territory—the rest of the city being Bill’s—by some mutual agreement, I thought.
“I thought you’d be at a gallery opening or a dour poetry reading,” he smirked. “It’s a Saturday night.”
“Very funny,” I replied.
Bill shrugged. “Come on, kid, guys looking for daddies? This is my crowd.”
"You’re not even gay,” I replied, deadpan.
His smirk widened. “I’m flexible.”
This isn’t even the worst thing Bill had ever done… yet, I thought, conjuring a long list of grievances.
Bill leaned closer, dropping his voice. “Relax. Have a little fun for a change.” He clapped me on the back—a little too hard, nearly spilling my beer—then turned back to the buzzing crowd, giving me a last nod for now.
I shook my head as Bill was swallowed up by the crowd. He wasn’t tall, but he had a presence—a confidence that made people part for him on instinct.
“Damn, he’s built,” Leo said, raising his voice over the booming music. “Makes an entrance.”
I nodded and sipped my beer slowly. A cold sweat gathered on the bottle.
Leo leaned in, shouting, “Are you two—?”
I pursed my lips. “We have... history.”
I left it there, not wanting to say more to Leo, who already seemed captivated by Bill’s impossibly broad shoulders. A familiar prickle of annoyance settled in my gut. Of course Leo would be drawn to Bill; everyone was.
But to myself, the more complete answer: He’s been making entrances my whole life. Since birth, actually. He’s my dad.
2.
Life with Bill had always been, well, a lot about Bill. My parents had a brief, whirlwind marriage that crashed and burned before it really got started. In the end, my mother had given up, returning Bill—with me in tow—to his own mother—my grandmother—with a weary sigh. "I’ve done what I could with him. Good luck," she’d said. She meant Bill, not baby me. I was already just an accessory to his father.
Even under my grandmother’s watch, life with Bill wasn’t a normal childhood. Any breakfast could, without warning, become a waffle-eating contest—Bill grinning, cheeks stuffed, me struggling to keep up in a competition I never agreed to.
Even errands turned competitive—grocery races down aisles, near-misses with displays. I rolled my eyes but usually ended up laughing, running after him. Bill made even the mundane into something else. Somehow, he always managed to "accidentally" show up at my school field trips, much to my mix of embarrassment and secret pride—he was more handsome, more vital than all the other parents
Once, when I got less than an A, Bill showed up the next day and strong-armed the teacher into fixing what he called an "obvious" mistake. I wasn’t sure whether to be grateful or mortified, but took the better grade without complaint. When anxiety gripped me before a big test or presentation, Bill’s loud music and relentless demands for a dance-off broke through the tension, pulling me back from the edge.
When I turned sixteen, my grandmother—the tiny, unflappable matriarch—patted Bill’s impeccably sculpted deltoid and declared to me, "I’ve done what I could with him. He’s yours now, Zachariah. Good luck." Then she’d headed south for a well-earned retirement.
I genuinely tried my best to raise Bill, attempting to pass on the few life lessons I’d gathered in my decade and a half of life. Most of it bounced off the man who was technically my father, who was far more dedicated to his own pursuits. Unlike my mother and grandmother, I had no one left to pass Bill off to.
He wasn’t rich by any stretch, but a modest trust fund, set up by his own dad, kept Bill afloat, monthly payments doled out first by his mother and then by me. Free from the worries of a steady paycheck or the confines of a conventional career, he chased whims with the unburdened zeal of a youngster half his age, throwing himself into his abiding interests with unbridled passion—wrestling, rugby, lifting. And romances that burned bright, but brief.
I started to see my father differently. Bill had strutted around the house in gym shorts and nothing else, pretty much all year round. Summer wear? Gym shorts. Winter wear? Gym shorts and socks—a small concession to the cold. He’d earned his body and had no desire to hide it.
But the slope of Bill’s broad back felt suddenly more urgent, the blond fur hugging his chest more like clasping fingers. His gravelly voice resonated in my ears. He had always shimmered to me, but now, he flared so bright I had to look away, a mix of fascination and a strange, new discomfort churning within me. I couldn’t decide if I was ashamed, or just annoyed at myself for noticing.
I learned to look around Bill. I focused on drawing comics or poetry while he hit a punching bag that hung in what most people would call the living room. When I showed more passion for art than athletics, Bill didn’t see it as a deal-breaker. He scheduled our workouts so I could squeeze in drawing around training, while he deadlifted nearby as I turned another page of Pride and Prejudice.
I finally tried what I thought might be my get-out-of-coaching-free card: "I’m not like you—I’m... I’m gay."
Bill didn’t miss a beat. His eyes narrowed as he crossed his arms. "Harder crowd, kid. We’re gonna need to up your exercise." He gave me a look, equal parts challenge and support. "The gays know their fitness."
When I started going out to gay bars, I was drawn by some magnetic pull toward the somewhat older men there—a certain build, a kind of quiet, invisible power, reminiscent of what I’d seen at home without being quite the same.
Despite myself, I had to admit the body Bill unwittingly helped me build—lean, firm—did its job of attracting the kind of men I craved. It was a strange, silent echo of a relationship I never had at home, played out in the anonymous glow of bar lights. Until, inevitably, Bill followed me to these bars.
At first he said he was just checking them out, looking out for his son, but it became a recurring habit. Bill hit forty, and the fervor for him among the women he liked had cooled—but at the gay bars he discovered a new, less reserved audience, one with a more heated response to his looks.
After yet another romance burned out, leaving him sore and unappreciated, he found his way back. Offers of drinks, eager hands and raw desire gave him a boost he clearly relished. How far exactly he took those boosts I didn't know.
I didn’t ask for details, but did expand my bar search, finding my way to a leather bar, a grittier place. Bill soon followed.
"What’s all… this?" I asked, waving my hand over Bill’s leather vest on his bare torso.
"Whoa, whoa," Bill admonished, "keep down the flamboyance? This isn’t that kind of bar." Of course, Bill knew about those bars too.
"Dad, you have got to stop doing this. Oh my god, I just called you ‘Dad’ in a leather bar."
"It’s usually more Daddy around here," Bill replied. "But Dad works. Or Bill."
A bigger, hairier bodybuilder type walked by and nodded. "Hey Bill. Play pool later?"
"You bet," Bill answered. He turned to me, his voice hushed. "I think they like it when I bend over to shoot."
"Oh, I’ll bet they do," I groaned.
Dad became Bill, and for years I avoided the scene outside The Seahorse—with a tacit agreement that Bill would leave that one space for me. Until Father’s Day weekend, when Bill found his way in.
3.
The MC stepped up to the mic. She wore a flowing jacket and a sly grin on her lips. “Welcome, welcome, you sweaty sons and secret admirers, to The Seahorse Father’s Day Strip-Off!”
She soaked up the applause, stretching to her full, theatrical height. “I’m Elektra Complex—I’m your guide, your analyst, your Greek chorus—here to narrate the drama, spill the tea, and maybe throw a little shade where it’s due.”
She grinned broadly. “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. It’s about family, desire and what happens when those worlds collide.”
She paused, letting the weight of her words settle onto an uncertain audience.
“Rules are simple: no grabbing the goods or 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, no full frontal nudity—save that for the encore.” A few playful boos rippled through the crowd, but she was already moving on.
"You’ll see dads strutting like they own the place. But whether they’re here to impress or distract, everyone’s got a story under those shirts.”
She flicked her red hair. “Now buckle up—we had an open call tonight for all you sexy daddies out there, and our brave contestants lined up! First up, we got Papa Bear! He’s the lovable lumberjack of the night, rough around the edges with unapologetic dad bod swagger!”
She gestured grandly as a thick, middle-aged guy took the stage in plaid boxers and a tank top that hugged every curve. He rubbed his shaved head and grinned, and as the beat dropped so did his hips. He started a grind that had more enthusiasm than finesse. It was on.
After his set, the MC took up the mic, smiling with a wink. “Give it up for Papa Bear! Now hold onto your drinks because here comes Batter Up—your baseball dad, coach, and idol.” She paused. “And a swing hitter with a spitball ready.”
Batter Up, a guy in his forties with a baseball cap and a confident smirk, stepped out. He tossed an imaginary ball into the crowd before winding up his bat and swinging like he was knocking one out of the park.
“Cap tipped low and charm cranked up, he’s swinging for more than just fences tonight. Watch him play like it’s a double-header—because in this family, every inning counts.”
Batter Up was good. He just might win it, based on the look on Leo’s face at my side—he was practically salivating.
I was wondering where Bill had gotten off to, and how he was faring with so much attention on men who weren’t him.
As his set wrapped, Elektra Complex returned. “Alright, now let’s turn up the heat—here comes The Young Dad!”
He was about my age—thirty—wearing a tracksuit, zipping the top down to show a smooth chest. “He’s the former jock who traded his trophies for teething rings, just realizing the spotlight’s moved on. Muscles flexing but the cheers are quieter, the glances fewer. He’s caught between proving he’s still got it and wondering if he’s been benched. Watch him try to remind everyone—and maybe himself—that he’s still in the game, even if the score’s not great.”
He moved fast—his tracksuit tore away, revealing an amazing body. He dropped to the stage, my head cocking to track the motion of his hips doing things I could hardly believe.
Leo elbowed me, giving a quick nod. “Pro,” he mouthed.
The routines mixed schtick and smolder, most getting laughs, but I hardly registered any of it—I was watching Leo out of the corner of my eye, as he leaned forward, enjoying the show, but maybe available for something else.
When the music faded, I prepared to make my move—ask Leo if he’d like to get out of there. My place was a short walk away.
But then the MC took the mic. “And now, give it up for a last-minute entry! The classic himbo who somehow landed the dad gig, the guy who likes the attention a little too much to share it. The dad who leaves you wondering who’s really raising who, but isn’t it fun trying to figure it out? Give it up for BILL!”
My head spun around as En Vogue’s What a Man blared, and Bill—my Bill—emerged from the shadows onto the stage. He had no schtick or visible gimmicks—just the snug ringer tee stretched over his solid chest and shoulders and form-fitting jeans hugging his crotch and ass, tapering to thick, powerful thighs. A chain necklace glinted. He grinned, squinting into the lights. Someone yelled, “Take it off!” Bill waved casually.
Of course. How could Bill see all that attention and not want his share? Another stage, another audience, another chance to steal the spotlight. Leo leaned forward, the look on his face shifting from curious to engrossed, his attention fully captured.
I settled in and took another swig of my beer. This was going to be a long night.
4.
Bill looked awkward—pacing the platform’s edge like he’d wandered onstage by mistake, a hand over his eyes to block the glare of the spotlight. “Hey,” he grinned. “I’m Bill.” Nervous laughter rippled and he stretched his arms overhead, cracked his knuckles, raised an arm for a clumsy flex—nowhere near what he was capable of. The audience was still.
Bill. Bill, I thought, what are you doing?
Though I couldn't guess his plan, Bill must have had one. He hooked his thumbs in the hem of his too-tight shirt, peeling it up to show his abs and soft gold hair—garnering modest but earned applause. “Like that?” he asked, getting laughter.
Bill grinned, pulling the shirt higher, stretching it over his lats and chest to emphasize his abs. He grunted near the mic, tangled in his too-tight top. “Sorry folks,” he muttered.
Then, gripping the shirt in his hands, he grunted and gritted his teeth. The crowd leaned in, silent. With a deliberate yank the fabric just under the ringer neck gave way, the mic amplifying the shredding sound. A collective shiver seemed to ripple through the onlookers.
As it split, the frayed ends framed his chest and abs—muscles defined from years of wrestling and work, golden hairs catching the light.
Now there was real applause, murmurs of appreciation as the swell of Bill’s chest rose in response. He pulled off the ringer neck and sleeves, wadded up the shirt’s remains and threw it into the audience. My heart pounded harder, seeing the flex in his arms with the throw, and Leo lurching forward next to me.
Then Bill’s grin shifted—no longer awkward, but full of mischief and purpose. The crowd hushed as his fingers deliberately teased the metal teeth of his zipper apart—slow, tantalizing, like unwrapping a secret.
With a practiced roll, he peeled the denim down over his muscled, rounded ass, revealing the black strap of a thong, then sliding the denim over thick thighs and hardened hamstrings. Every inch he revealed drew whistles and hungry eyes.
He paused mid-thigh, chunky white sneakers on his feet, an apparent obstacle to his strip. He kicked back one leg, pulled off the sneaker and tossed it up. It caught the spotlight as it spun, and fell at his feet. The second sneaker followed—with the same effortless toss, eyes on the crowd, grinning.
“He’s good,” Leo rumbled, barely audible over the music blaring overhead, tapping my shoulder to get my attention.
There was a wave of silence that spoke louder than gasps at the sight of Bill in just black thong and socks—not flexing, but every muscle showing. Chest broad and core cut, thighs thick, calves popping, golden hair glinting. He hit a double bicep flex, proper this time, and the crowd lost it.
Bill stepped forward, thighs and calves flexing, hips rolling in slow, subtle circles as he corkscrewed his feet back into his sneakers. When he looked up again he scanned the front row of his competitors. “C’mere,” he said, crooking a finger. The Young Dad cocked his head and stepped forward, but Bill shook his head, no, and pointed more clearly to the burliest guy—Papa Bear.
Bill dropped to hands and knees on the raised platform, and nodded to Papa Bear to climb on. He straddled Bill, resting hands on his ride’s thick shoulders, and Bill’s whole body seemed to groan as it lowered to the floor.
With his weight plus Papa Bear’s, biceps bulging, Bill forced a push-up, breath coming hard, through gritted teeth. There was a collective gasp as Bill lowered again, controlled this time, and then rose again. He emitted a low growl and sweat beaded heavy as he managed the second.
He lowered and held—trembling—his back broadening, glutes tightening, hamstrings and calves flexing under strain. He rose a third time, a fourth and a fifth—by the last, muscles quivering and a choked, guttural grunt escaping him, and dropped to the sweet relief of the stage floor, even then chuckling.
Papa Bear rose first to take his applause, and helped pull Bill to his feet, breathing hard, skin glistening from exertion. He hugged Bill, holding on longer than he needed to, drawing audience laughter. “You’re lighter than you look!” Bill grunted into the microphone. Papa Bear howled and the audience joined with him.
Leo pressed a hand at my arm again, saying something I couldn’t hear.
“What?”
“Fit! You’re fit!”
I felt an involuntary flex in my bicep under his palm—one built up over years by my best friend and greatest nemesis.
“I had a hardass trainer!” I shouted, gesturing to Bill, who with boundless puppy energy jumped from the stage into the audience.
Now, with his raw power established and the crowd roaring for more, Bill ran a hand through his hair, turned so the front row got a better look at his ass. “Shake it daddy!” someone yelled, earning a laugh that made his abs ripple deeper, drawing a roar. And then, with his puppy dog energy, Bill left the stage, bounding into the audience.
5.
Bill strode into the crowd where he was most at home—where the action was. He wasn’t a stripper; he didn’t have Young Dad’s practiced moves, but he moved with a wrestler’s swagger and confident strut.
Hands—tentative at first—reached out, grazing his biceps, the span of his back, the curve of his ass. He let them touch, flexing for every squeeze, encouraging the wandering hands. Emboldened, fingers dug into his thick shoulders, lingered on his lats, feeling the dense, carved muscle firm beneath smooth skin. A few hands traced the line of his pelvis, the dip of his hipbones, the furrow of his Adonis belt—even cupped the bulge on his thong.
I gulped, seeing Bill wander deeper into the crowd—sweat gathering as he leaned into the heat, letting strangers’ hands explore him so intimately, relishing the collective hunger and thrill.
Where the hell's the MC? I wondered. She said no touching.
But the MC knew a good thing when she saw it, and that rules were more guidelines when it came to the show. “Oh my, yes. Remember darlings, we’re here for tips tonight—just the tips.”
Dollar bills of uncertain denominations trickled, then cascaded out, folded and shoved into the thong’s strap. Bill let his hips grind into them—not quite a dance, more meeting his fans where they were. One guy slid a bill along Bill’s inner thigh, close enough to send a tremor through his body, before it was deposited aggressively in the swelling pouch.
A confident looking leather man held up a crisp twenty, catching Bill's eye. Bill approached him and the man pulled him in for a wet, open-mouth kiss. Bill didn’t decline, and my stomach twisted. When the kiss was done, the man, looking utterly satisfied, pressed the twenty into Bill’s thong, eliciting applause and laughter.
No sooner had the crowd recovered than a slim businessman stepped forward, slick and sharp in his tailored suit. With a sly grin, he pressed a quick kiss to Bill’s flexed bicep, then trailed his tongue along the muscle in a teasing lick that drew a fresh round of whistles. Bill’s grin widened, clearly feeding off the attention, as the businessman folded his own twenty into Bill’s waistband.
The MC, seizing the moment, shouted, "Give it up for Bill, a man of simple needs! From now on, you can call him... TWENTY DOLLAR BILL!"
It was clear then: a twenty got you more than just a feel. It got you a kiss. Of a bicep, a pec—or open mouthed and yielding.
Hands flew up, waving their twenties. Bill moved from one to another, accepting the bills and offering fast, wet kisses in return, or letting eager hands grope his chest and ass as they stuffed the bills into his thong. With each bill added, each touch accepted, Bill’s confidence swelled. His movements grew bolder, his grins wider. He fed off their hunger, his posture growing more assertive, even possessive of the space and attention he commanded.
Arms wrapped his waist, hands slid up his sweat-slicked back, bodies pressing tight as he let himself be the center of their universe for a moment. Bills were stuffed into the back and pushed deep into the bulge, turning Bill’s body with collective hands to face each new deposit—copping a feel on their exit—a crisp rustle of paper against warm skin. I could almost hear the black fabric groan with new weight.
The sheer audacity of it, coupled with Bill's compliant pleasure, sent a jolt through me that made my gut clench, even as a strange heat prickled my skin. These weren’t the men Bill should be letting touch him—not like this, not with such crude, unbridled entitlement. And yet he did. He even seemed to enjoy it.
A dark, intrusive thought flashed through my mind: I'd always imagined Bill in his forays into gay bars dominating others, always on top. But watching him now, so pliant under these rough, demanding hands, I wondered. I saw a fleeting image: Bill on his back, looking up, broad chest heaving, gasping as his body is used, claimed.
The MC’s voice, a throaty purr now, cut the moment: "Ladies and gentlemen, and all you beautiful creatures in between! 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. Oh my, I’m a little dewy thinking about it.”
The crowd grew more aggressive and Bill kept going—bills were stuffed into the crevice between forearms and thick biceps, into his armpits, trailing on the floor behind him. Keeping the twenties wasn’t as important as getting them, what each represented.
Leo’s hand found my knee, fingers squeezing as he leaned closer, his breath hot against my ear. “I’ll bet I could take you out to my jeep and pork you, right here.”
Unsure I’d heard him right, I asked, "Pork? Really?"
“You bet," he said, eyeing me over.
He reached for my hand, pulling it towards his jeans. “Want to feel what you’re dealing with?” he asked, a suggestive glint in his eye.
He guided my fingers into his snug front pocket. My hand slipped past the lining—or rather, the lack of it, his jeans pocket had been cut out. My fingers pressed against the hard, thick heat of his cock.
Leo watched my face, expecting some kind of reaction—shock, maybe, or immediate arousal. But having grown up with Bill I wasn’t easily sold on either.. I just gave a slight, almost imperceptible squeeze.
Leo’s eyes widened slightly, a flash of surprise, quickly replaced by a predatory grin. “You like that, daddy’s boy?”
The words daddy’s boy conjured intrusive thoughts and I felt the heat rising in my face, a blend of annoyance and something else I couldn't quite name.
The crowd’s cheers swelled and started to fade, but just as it looked like Bill was done, he raised his arms. He wasn’t just stepping down; he was scanning the room.
Ripples of quiet spread, and the MC leaned in, her voice dropping to a softer, more intimate tone. “Oh what’s this? A third act? All that muscle and swagger still on display, but the eyes? What are we searching for, Bill? What’s left?”
6.
Bill began walking slowly, but deliberately, toward the far end of the bar—the one area he’d not yet conquered, avoiding it until now.
The effort of his performance showed on him—in the rise and fall of his swollen chest, sweat running in the ridges of his abs, soaking his laden pouch. The golden hair on his front and limbs was plastered down but still caught the dim bar lights. Twenties, some stuck to his skin, crested out of his thong, others fluttered behind him.
He was a living sculpture, I had to admit. But one that required constant chiseling.
He stepped up to me, and I clutched my book like a shield. Don’t draw me into this.
Without a word, Bill spread his arms wide—his body open, bare, and completely at my mercy. The sheer span of his shoulders dominated the space around us, and even in the deafening beat of the music, it was as if I could hear his heart throb.
The MC’s voice dropped to a conspiratorial purr: “And there it is, darlings—the one vote that counts. Forget the judges, forget the applause. When the man on stage looks to the boy in the crowd... that’s the real crown.”
The Seahorse audience could see the unspoken plea and challenge. A low murmur built, starting with one voice, then four, then more—until the crowd was chanting. “TWEN-TY! TWEN-TY! TWEN-TY!”
The rhythm rolled through the bar, wrapping the moment in playful energy. Heat flooded my cheeks. I glanced at Leo, whose gaze lingered a second longer, a silent question in his eyes but offered no help.
I took a shaky breath, then pulled a few crumpled bills from my pocket—the final vote Bill needed. My gaze flickered from the money in my hand back up to Bill’s expectant, flushed face.
With a slow, steady sigh of surrender, I extended the bills. My fingers brushed the tight, warm fabric of Bill’s thong, then slipped beneath the waistband, grazing the golden hair sweat-plastered to Bill’s lower abs before pushing the bills deep into the soft, yielding heat of the bulge. The crinkle of paper was a surprisingly intimate sound against Bill’s skin.
Bill’s grin slipped wide, a flash of triumph. He snapped the thong’s waistband sharply—a showman’s signature move—then caught my gaze and cupped my face in his hands.
His lips pressed firmly against mine, starting soft and tentative, barely parted, then opening with a sudden heat as his tongue brushed mine. Without thinking, I curled my fingers into the sweat-slicked curve of his waist, pulling him closer, taking his mouth harder than anyone else had that night.
When we finally broke apart, our breaths came back slow. He leaned close enough for me to feel the warm rush of his breath at my ear, voice low and spoke words meant only for me.
He stepped back, grinning wide, utterly unaware of the storm swirling inside me as he melted into the crowd. The audience owned him, and he reveled in it.
I brushed my lips with the back of my hand, the faint wetness stirring butterflies in my gut. Worth every damn cent.
The MC’s voice boomed over the crowd. “THAT WAS TWENTY DOLLAR BILL!” Bill’s outro music blasted louder—revisiting What a Man.
Leo pressed against me, voice raised. “So—is he your ex or something?”
“He’s my dad!” I answered, a flush creeping up my neck.
Leo cupped an ear, shaking his head. “You’re bad?”
“No! My DAD!” I said louder.
Leo squinted, furrowing his brow. “What?”
“MY DAD!” I repeated louder, so close I could feel Leo’s breath on my ear. “HE’S MY DAD!” The music cut out like a spotlight snapping off as I shouted, my voice cracking in the suddenly silent arena.
“HE’S. MY. DAD!”
My shout echoed through the still bar. Heads snapped toward us.
The MC pounced, purring with wicked delight: “Ah, the delicious plot twist! The son calls out the king of the stage, turning this Father’s Day spectacle into a messy therapy session. Sophocles would’ve sold tickets for this.”
A ripple of laughter mixed uneasily with scattered applause. I swallowed hard, the heat of the moment settling in my bones.
The confusion etched on Leo’s face resolved. “So… he’s your dad?”
I nodded, cheeks hot. “Yeah. My dad.”
Leo blinked, then smiled slowly, a sly grin spreading. “Oh.”
I felt a surge of frustrated energy, the culmination of the whole stupid night that was supposed to be a couple of beers and maybe a pickup if I met the right guy. I could feel my resolve to salvage something of it building in me.
I turned to Leo. "Where’s your jeep?" My voice was low and a little rougher than usual.
Leo caught the change instantly, his easy grin widening. “Out back.”
He was a douchebag, but undeniably hot. Broad shoulders, big pecs, an easy grin.
I shrugged, tension in my shoulders loosening. “Let’s go.”
I tucked my book under my arm and the two of us headed out together, the buzz of the night still ringing in our ears but now mixed with something new—a chance, maybe, for something different.
7.
The cool air in the jeep was a sharp contrast to the humid, sweaty bar. But as our bodies pressed closer, knees knocking, shoulders brushing, and our breaths mingled in the confined space, the temperature increased quickly.
We pulled at each other’s clothes and my jeans made it only past my knees when Leo grabbed at the bunched-up material and pushed up with one arm, my feet nearly brushing the jeep’s roof, my rear exposed.
“Fuck,” Leo groaned, licking his lips and looking down at me.
With one hand still on the bunched-up jeans to hold my legs in place, he dropped his face down to lick my ass, and his tongue plunged in fast. The sound of his wet tongue fucking me, and the smacking of his lips mixed with my shudders and gasps. Our limbs tangled in the tight space as heat and the scent of sweat increased in the cramped cabin—the one place on Earth where Bill wasn’t.
Leo pulled back, lips slick, leaving my hole trembling. I rested my feet against the top of his jeep to let him at it, looking at his strongly built arms locking me in, the muscle twitching now and then.
He lifted his head, mouth and jaw slick with saliva. “Your dad’s fucking hot.” My breath caught at the words. “So are you.”
Dad? Even here?
My time to respond was cut short as Leo pushed my legs back further, his grip on the jeans tethering my ankles firm, hinting at a dominant streak I hadn't fully recognized until then, but welcomed. The vinyl seats creaked softly under our weight as he rose up, pushing against his denim covered crotch against me.
He pulled his tee over his head, exposing the rounded meat of his chest and I felt a surge in my hard cock. My hands reached instinctively, fingers sinking into the firm, dense pillows of Leo’s pecs, fine dark hair clinging to taut muscle.
I didn’t care if it was steroids or real. I’d feed him steroids like a Pez dispenser to feel that. He must have seen it in my expression and touch, because he pulled my face in close, pressing it hard into his own flesh, my lips on a stuff nipple. “Yeah, daddy’s boy. Suck that tit.”
The words daddy’s boy again—provoking thoughts buried in dark corners of my mind, the uneasy and the aroused. But the immediate pressure of Leo’s jeans-clad crotch against my exposed rear brought me back to the moment.
“You want me to pork you right here?” The word made me want to laugh, but there was something in Leo’s low, rough voice that held it at bay.
“Fuck yeah. Fuck me.”
We both wrestled with his belt and jeans in the cramped jeep, the denim and leather rough, the buttons somehow giving way. Leo hiked his jeans down just till they were tight on his thighs, low enough to free his cock and expose the hard, pale curves of his ass. I felt the thick, hard heat pressing against me, insistent.
His tongue work was good, but it wasn’t enough for this. “Uff… do you have something?”
Leo grinned, spitting into his palm, then stroking his big, curved cock with it so the stroking, smacking sound filled the cabin. Oh fuck.
He held me in place, my jeans still bunch beneath my knees, and pushed in, drawing a sharp intake of breath. The stretch was fast—firm and unforgiving, as my hands grasped at air. More friction than ideal, but after that whole night, maybe just right—enough to drag me back into the moment.
The first thrusts came rough, overwhelming in their power, Leo’s eagerness clear. But as my body adjusted, my insides conformed to the invading presence, I moaned. Leo hit a strong, steady rhythm and my hips arched instinctively, meeting Leo’s.
“You fucking like that, daddy’s boy?” Leo murmured, voice rough, pounding harder with the words. That phrase again.
At his words, images of the strip show flickered in my head, stuffing a twenty in a heavy pouch, deliberately and slowly—then Leo hit home again, his thick cock snapping me back—tongues meeting—and again a hard slam into the present.
“Fuck me,” I rasped, clutching at Leo’s solid sides, as the thrusts into me grew harder and faster.
His mouth found mine again, his tongue invading, stifling any sound but my moans and the smacking of his cock into me. The jeep rocked faintly with our movement, the leather creaking under us.
His hands pushed down on the back of my thighs, opening me for deeper, filling thrusts.
I clutched at Leo’s shoulder with one hand, fingers digging into hard muscle, as the other worked my own cock in the crevice between our bodies. I saw stars in my eyelids, and could feel my load being driven out of me by his brutal pounding.
“Oh fuck.” I trembled, eyes closed, as bolts shot through my body. “FUCK!”
I erupted, shattering and shuddering—my cock shot surges of cum through my fingers, splattering onto my belly, driven out by Leo’s relentless thrusts.
“Fuck yeah,” he grunted, looking down on me, as I grasped at his sides, trying to draw him in deeper.
I wanted him to finish deep inside my battered guts, but he slowed his pace and then stopped. He pulled out of me with a thick slurring sound clear in the sudden quiet. Shifting, he pulled his jeans up, his heavy cock and balls still hanging out.
I looked up to see his breath catching, his brow sweaty. He looked at me with a confident smirk.
“You’re not gonna cum?” I asked, my voice raspy.
Leo shrugged. “Thought I might go back in, see if your old man is available. He’s got that ‘come get me’ vibe.”
“Wait—WHAT?” I asked, my voice flat. “Wait, we just—we just fucked. And you want to go see... my dad?”
I felt the good feeling drain like bathwater.
Leo shrugged again, unapologetic. I could see the bar’s neon sign lighting his face. “Night’s young, right?”
He pushed off of me and unlatched the jeep door, awkwardly climbing out with his jeans open and his erection exposed. I followed, unfurling my legs—trying to hoist up my own jeans and grabbing my book.
In the cooler night air, on the asphalt, Leo stuffed the heft of his cock into his jeans, adjusting his hips so he could zip up. As I pulled my own up from my wobbly legs, I could see Leo’s club of an erection still visible under his denim.
“Are you fucking serious?”
“He’s available,” Leo said, wiping his sweaty brow with the flat of his hand. “And that body—damn.”
I shook a leg, reorienting. The bar’s thrum was muffled behind closed doors, voices and laughter occasionally drifting out.
“He’s fifty,” I said, clenching my jaw.
“So?” Leo snorted, turning to face me. “Like you weren’t eyeing him all night yourself—like you hadn’t eaten for a week and he was prime rib. So spare me.” Leo shook his head, a meager gesture at some sort of reconciliation. “Look—no offense—but he’s an attention whore, selling feels for twenty dollars a pop. Don’t make a thing out of it.”
“Wow,” I said, shaking my head. “Just—wow. I thought you were maybe an okay guy.”
Leo sneered, recoiling at the idea. “The fuck you did. You just wanted to get laid. Get those endorphins going. Dude, I don’t even know you.” His eyes fell to my book, clutched to my chest. He scoffed. “And Jane Austen? Overrated, boring romance.”
That was it. Without thinking, I turned fast. My fist connected with Leo’s jaw and glanced off—a satisfying crack. A jolt ran up my arm, a sharp, clean sting in my knuckles.
Leo staggered, more from surprise than hurt, clutching his face. “THE FUCK?”
"She’s not a romance writer,” I said through gritted teeth, shaking my hand as a sting radiated from my knuckles. “Asshole.”
Leo scrambled, backing away, hand to jaw. “Asshole!” he snarled, a sneer twisting his lip. “You’re nuts! Your whole psycho family!”
Then he was out, slamming the jeep door, wheels spinning against asphalt as he disappeared into the night.
When I was alone—“Ow—OW!” I muttered, shaking my hand.
Well, yeah, it was kind of a psycho family. But it was mine.
From the shadows I heard it—at first a meaty smack, then again and again. A slow, deliberate clap echoing in the sudden quiet of the parking lot. I turned, my head snapping toward the sound.
Bill stepped into view, a knowing look on his face. Even there, his naked torso caught the dim parking lot light, showing the cleft of his chest. He took in my disheveled state, my shaking hand. “Let’s get you some ice, kid."
8.
The bartender—the one with glasses who recognized me earlier—handed off the bar towel filled with ice, to Bill’s specifications.
“Here you go, Bill,” he said, as if it were just another order.
“Thanks, Cam,” Bill replied with a grin and a wink.
Bill was still gloriously shirtless, though his jeans were back on, riding low on his hips like they were painted there. He seemed utterly unconcerned with the public display of his physique. And why not? He looked incredible.
I took the makeshift icebag. It stung my knuckles at first, but then the cold felt good and I settled into it.
“How do you two know each other?” I asked, nodding toward the bartender. “I’ve been coming here for a year and I don’t know his name.”
Bill shrugged. “Just being friendly, kid. You should try it sometime.” He winked at Cam again and motioned for a beer.
Cam slid two beers across the bar and shook his head, a faint, familiar amusement in his eyes, like he’d seen this routine a thousand times.
Bill took a long swig and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. His gaze fell to my book, resting on the bar, then to my iced hand. A grin spread across his face. “So,” he said, mock offended, “you didn’t punch him when he insulted me. But Jane Austen? That’s where you draw the line?”
I rolled my eyes—but a tiny smile tugged at my lips. Well he got that wrong, I could have said, but didn’t. I took a slow sip of my beer instead, and shifted the ice pack like it was a security blanket.
“You’re a looker, kid,” Bill said, his eyes roaming over my physique, an almost professional assessment. “Good genes. Good start. You could make the most of that, you know. I could set up a new routine for y—”
“Bill.” I cut him off, but the unspoken weight of Bill’s hope hung in the air.
Bill leaned closer, his voice dropping conspiratorially. “The bartender, Cam, he’s been eyeing you. He’s not a douchebag like you go for though. Maybe leave the book at home next time.” A new thought visibly manifested in Bill’s head. “Hey, the three of us—”
“BILL,” I cut him off before the ideas got any more outlandish. “I’m good. Really.”
A burly bear from the contest passed by and clapped Bill on the shoulder. “Great job, Twenty Dollar Bill! You rocked the house! Call me about the studio, alright?” He mimicked a phone to his face. “My wife’s gonna love hearing about this.”
“Will do, buddy,” Bill grinned over his shoulder. “Just having a beer with my kid here.” The bear wandered off, leaving me blinking.
“Studio?” I asked, curiosity sneaking in despite myself.
“Modeling,” Bill said. “Thought I might get involved in the arts.” He pulled up an arm to flex a perfect, ostrich egg-sized bicep, admiring the way the light caught the muscle. “I’m a muse.”
I groaned again, softer this time, in affectionate defeat. I shifted the ice pack once more.
“You ever think about drawing me in your comics, kid? We could make art together.”
“You already model for every mirror you pass.” I shook my head. “You don’t need me.”
Bill laughed, but his eyes lingered on me a little too long. “It’d be different if it was you.” His handsome jaw shifted subtly. “I just like hanging out with you.”
I looked at him skeptically.
“Chin up, buttercup,” Bill said, taking another sip. “It’s not so bad.”
“It’s not,” I replied, sighing lightly. “But Bill, you have to stop showing me up. I need a little space. Just stop… competing with me.”
“I would never do that.” We both laughed.
“Remember my graduation?” I asked. “You wore a kilt.”
“Scots.” Bill shrugged with his powerful shoulders. “Traditional.”
“You sat in the front row,” I replied, smirking, “with your legs spread.”
Bill puffed out his chest, self-satisfied. “I was proud.”
“You weren’t wearing underwear,” I pointed out, deadpan.
“Well.” Bill looked wistful. Then a grin spread on his handsome mug. “It was hot.”
I leaned in. “Sorry about the contest. The Young Dad? He’s not even old enough to be a real dad.”
Bill’s chest rose as he began to speak, but for once thought better of it. Instead he settled down, smiling at me. “Meh. I did okay.”
“You were the best. The judges were blind,” I said, though Bill, for all his grandstanding, didn't seem to care much.
My chin bunched up, taking in the sight of my dad, already lost in some idea of his next grand performance. I shifted the ice again, and then, almost involuntarily, my gaze drifted to the bar, where Cam was wiping down the counter—but watching me. Our eyes met and Cam’s cheeks dimpled as he blushed. What a cutie.
The old neon clock hanging crookedly above Cam clicked. Twelve midnight. Sunday, technically.
I raised my beer. “Happy Father’s Day, Bill.”
Bill turned, his smile genuine and unburdened. “You too.”
The bar hummed softly around us. The air, no longer thick with sweat and pulsing bass, felt a little lighter. The beer was good.
