I knew I was getting ahead of myself, getting excited over the possibility of something that might never happen, but it was already Tuesday . . . Thursday night was only two days away . . . and Dad had a routine to follow.
Could I allow myself to be a part of it? Would he allow me to be a part of it? I mean, it was one thing for him to accept that I was cleaning up his used condoms, but another thing entirely for him to use me as his condom. I didn’t consider myself gay. I’d dated plenty of girls, had never once looked at a guy thinking he was hot, and I jacked off to either guy-on-girl or girl-on-girl porn, but I wanted to give Dad more than my mother had.
Yeah, I admit it, a part of me wanted to show her up and prove myself better, but the bigger part of me just wanted to continue being a part of Dad’s sexual release.
Not as man-to-man, but as father-to-son.
Not in a gay arousal sense, but a family duty sense.
Not because I lusted after him, but because I loved him.
I wanted to be Daddy’s Dirty Boy.
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