The music shop closed at six on Fridays. I locked the cases, counted the till, and told myself I was going home.
I wasn’t.
I’d been telling myself that for a year. Every Friday had the same lie in it. I’d wash my hands in the back sink, check my phone like I had somewhere decent to be, and then I’d take the long way out of town. The theater sat past the last strip mall, behind a liquor store that sold more lotto than whiskey. No name on the marquee that meant anything. Just ADULT and a faded arrow.
By the time I parked, the sun was already dropping and the lot was half full. Sedans. A couple of work vans. One BMW with a child seat still in the back. Friday meant the married ones came in droves. Get it out before the weekend locked them to the house, the wife, the kids, the version of themselves they went back to.
I paid cash at the booth. The guy behind the glass didn’t look at my face. He never did, he doesn’t give a shit.
Inside, the air hit first. Bleach trying to win and losing. Cheap spray over sweat. Cum that had dried into the carpet so many times it had its own smell. Under that, piss, faint and sour, I bet some guys who like to piss on someone’s face visited sometimes. The hallway was dark on purpose. Someone had put a stick-on air freshener on the wall and it only made the bleach sharper. The main room opened like a mouth.
It was a big old theater. Maybe two hundred seats. Most of them stained. Armrests with a shine that wasn’t from cleaning. The screen was loud — two women, what straight guys called blond bimbos, going at each other with huge dildos, like they were being paid by the decibel, wet sounds pumped through speakers that had been dying for years. The picture was too bright for the room. It made everything else look worse. Dozens of men spread out in the dark. Some in the aisles. Some slouched low. A few standing against the back wall with their pants open, working themselves slow, eyes on the screen or on whoever was on their knees. You could hear the wet of it under the movie if you listened. You could hear a zipper. You could hear a man breathe like he was trying not to.
I knew the layout. I’d been coming here for a year. It was my secret addiction.
I wasn’t picky. Not if the guy looked decent and had something worth putting in my mouth. Suits on their lunch break. Suits after work, still wearing the day. College boys who thought this was a joke until it wasn’t. Latino guys from the warehouse down the road. Men in their fifties who sat in the same seats every week. I moved through the room the way some people moved through a grocery store. Looking. Choosing. Taking what was offered.
The college himbo was in the fifth row, aisle seat, like he’d been waiting for someone to notice him. Big shoulders. A baseball cap on backward. The kind of face that belonged on a team poster. His cock was already out, thick, a little clumsy in his hand. He looked at me when I sat on the step next to him. He didn’t say anything. He just took his hand away.
I got down.
He tasted like cheap body wash, his big balls slightly musky. I took him in and he made a sound he tried to swallow. One of his hands found the back of my head, not rough, just there. On the screen a girl was screaming with pleasure. Around us men were stroking. I worked him the way I always did — slow first, then deeper, until my throat had him and he stopped pretending this was casual. His hips kept wanting to lift off the seat. I let them.
“Fuck, dude you’re a pro. My girlfriend should learn some tricks with you.” he said, loud enough to be heard above the porn movie. “Don’t stop, dude.”
I didn’t. I used my hand on what I couldn’t fit and let him push. He was the kind of straight who only got this hard in the dark. His thighs were tense. When he came it was sudden, a lot of it, and I swallowed because that was the point of coming here. Be fed. He held my head through it, hips twitching, then let go like he’d remembered where he was.
“Thanks, dude. Gotta bounce.” he said, already tucking away.
I stayed on my knees long enough to wipe my mouth.
That was when I saw him.
A few rows ahead. A man sitting down like he had a reserved seat. Jacket still on. The careful way he opened his belt, like even this had a correct order. Then his cock, out in the light from the screen — long, cut, a good looking cock. He started stroking it with the same patience he used for everything. Not frantic. Measured.
I knew that profile before I knew the rest.
The short hair, barber-cut to hide the thinning at the temples and on top. The beard, trimmed close, more gray than it had been last Christmas. The thick brows. The way he sat, straight even here, like posture was a habit he couldn’t drop.
Carter. My father…
Forty-five. Almost six-one. Bank manager. The serious one. The charming one. The husband who still brought my mother flowers on Thursdays. The dad who texted to ask if I’d eaten. Blue eyes that could pin you to a chair across a dinner table. A lean runner’s body under those work clothes. Nothing gym-showy. Just dry and athletic and held together like his life. To stay healthy.
He was in a porn theater on a Friday, jerking off to a loud lesbian movie, and I was on my knees twenty feet behind him with another man’s cum still in my throat.
My heart went so hard I thought he’d hear it.
I didn’t move. I couldn’t. If I stood, the motion might catch his eye. If I left, I’d have to walk the aisle. A white-collar guy about forty had already stepped in from the side. Wedding ring. Nice watch. The same after-work faded cologne smell as half the guys in the room on Fridays. He didn’t ask. He just stood in front of me and took it out. He was already hard. Average and clean and impatient.
I opened my mouth because if I did anything but stay down, my father might turn around.
The guy pushed in. I took him. I kept my eyes over his hip, on the row ahead.
Carter’s, my respectable father hand moved in a slow, tight rhythm. He was watching the screen. He had no idea. The college kid was gone. The room kept making its wet noises. The man in my mouth put a hand on the seat back and started using me like he’d paid for the time. I let him. I was shaking and I was hard and I was terrified my dad would look back and see his son with a stranger’s cock in his mouth.
He didn’t look back.
The white-collar guy came with a quiet grunt, one hand fisted in my hair just long enough to finish. I swallowed that too. He muttered something that might have been thanks or whatever and walked off toward the exit like he had a train to catch.
I stayed down.
A man in his thirties with a pink fit t-shirt had stopped at my father’s row.
I saw it happen in pieces. The guy sat one seat over. Said something I couldn’t hear. Carter didn’t turn him away. For a second I thought he would. I thought the version of him that sat at our table would stand up and leave. He didn’t. The guy’s hand went to my father’s cock. Carter kept his eyes on the screen. His jaw changed. That was all. Then the guy was on his knees in the aisle, and my father’s cut cock disappeared into a stranger’s mouth.
I thought I was going to be sick. I thought I was going to come in my jeans. I thought both at once.
The guy knew what he was doing. He took my father’s deep. My father put a hand on the seat in front of him and didn’t make a sound I could hear over the movie. His other hand stayed on the armrest, knuckles white. He was still watching the women. Or pretending to. The guy on his knees worked him like this was a service, like Friday before dinner. I could see the wet flash of it when he pulled up. I could see my father’s thighs go tight under the good slacks. I could see the beard when his head tipped back half an inch, the only crack in him.
I had never seen him like that.
Not in a locker room. Not at the house. Not in any version of him that belonged to me.
A man I didn’t look at stood over me and I took him without thinking. I needed something in my mouth or I was going to make a noise. He was older, fifties, cologne and a gut he held in. I sucked him and watched my father get his cock sucked two rows down. The cocksucker’s head bobbed. Dad’s hips lifted once, small, like he couldn’t help it. Then he came. I knew because the guy on his knees stayed down and swallowed and my father’s hand finally left the seat back. His shoulders dropped. He sat there for a second with his cock still out, spent, looking at the screen like it could put him back together.
It was over in seconds after that.
Mr. Carter, the bank manager, tucked himself away. He fixed his belt. He stood, jacket still on, the same man who walked into the bank every morning, and he went up the aisle toward the exit without looking left or right.
He didn’t see me, thank God!
The door at the back opened and shut. The movie kept screaming. The fifty-year-old finished in my mouth and I barely noticed. I swallowed because it was easier than thinking.
I sat on the dirty step and tried to breathe.
My father had just come down a stranger’s throat in a dirty porn theater that smelled like bleach and old sperm. Then he’d gone home, or to the car, or to my mother. And I was still here.
I should have left.
I didn’t.
A guy in a gray suit stopped in front of me. Late thirties. The same haircut as my father, the same kind of face you trusted with money. He already had it out. Long enough. Cut. I took him because he looked like the man who had just walked out. The man who made me. I closed my eyes for the first few seconds and it was worse. I opened them and watched the screen over his stomach and thought about my father’s hand on that cock, the cut skin, the way he’d let someone else finish him. The gray suit put two fingers under my jaw to keep me in place, to keep my attention on serving him. He came fast. I swallowed. He left without saying anything.
Another one replaced him. Navy jacket, loosened tie, the end-of-week slack in his shoulders. He talked while I sucked him, low and dirty, about his wife, about how he needed this, about how she wouldn’t do it anymore. I didn’t answer. I used my mouth and thought about Mr. Carter’s blue eyes on the lesbians and the stranger’s mouth on him. This one held my head and pushed until I gagged and then he came across my tongue, thicker, and I took that too.
A Latino guy from the loading dock, thick, uncut, a little rough in my hair. He said así when he got close and filled my mouth and kept me there until he was done. He tasted like the day. He patted my cheek when he pulled out, almost friendly, and went back to a seat like he’d only stood up for a minute.
A kid who couldn’t have been much older than the college himbo, nervous, too polite, who kept saying sorry while I worked him. He apologized when he came and then laughed like he couldn’t believe he’d done it. His hands were shaking. Mine weren’t. Not anymore.
The fifth one looked so much like my father from the neck down that I almost said his name. Same lean runner’s body. Same type of belt. Same way of standing like he still had an office to go back to. I sucked him slower. I wanted it to last. I wanted to image with was my own father. He didn’t let it. He used my throat with urgency and finished with his teeth together and a hand on the back of my neck, and when he pulled out I stayed on my knees because standing up would have meant the night was over.
The room had thinned. The movie had changed. Still blonde women but this time being fucked by black guys. Still loud. The seats around me were worse in the leftover light. Dried spots. A smear on the armrest. Someone had left a tissue on the floor.
I sat back against a chair and took myself out.
I didn’t last. I didn’t try to. I thought about my father in that row. The long cut cock. The gay guy swallowing him. The aftershave in the aisle. The way he’d sat there afterward, putting himself away like a man closing a folder. I came on my own fist looking at the place where he’d been sitting, and it didn’t do anything except make the decision clearer.
I cleaned up. I walked out through the same dark hall. The lot was cooler. The BMW with the child seat was gone, probably was one of the suited guys I just served. The sky over the liquor store was that orange that happens after six.
In the car I sat with the engine off until my hands stopped shaking from the strong orgasm.
He didn’t know I’d been there.
He didn’t know I knew.
He was going to come back. Men like that came back, always. Even though they swear to themselves it’s the last time. Fridays. The hour before they went home. The same seat, if they could get it. Routine.
I started the car.
I wasn’t going to rest until it was my mouth on him.
Until it was me in that aisle, and my father looking at the screen, and nobody in that room knowing I was his son except me.
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