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TJ

The name Todd Garrett Harrington the Fourth carries a lot of expectations with it. My father is a pro golfer, now running his own course outside of Austin, Texas. I came out to him when I was fifteen. After the initial shock, he became my biggest supporter. He paid my way through Denver University, bless him. Pays for my membership in Ben Vance’s Genesee Hills Golf Club. Is helping me go pro. He’ll even tell me I look pretty when I nail my eyeliner. Does occasionally call me Todd, though. Pretty much his only flaw. Besides the expectations to get my pro card this year. No pressure.

Here on this dance floor? Zero expectations. Stick my ass into the crotch behind me and grind. Hold the hips in front of me and grind. Rotate. Back and forth. My cock stiffens as I feel the dick behind me prodding. Mmm, love that feeling, rubbing against a nice, hard cock. I twerk against it, feeling heady.

“Hey, beautiful,” the guy says into my ear. “I want to see that pretty mouth of yours wrapped around my dick.”

I spin out of the line and move to the bar. I’m not sucking a random tonight. Freddie gives me a nod and hands me a new beer, then leans over.

“Find yourself a Daddy, yet, Mr. College Grad?” he asks, his dark handlebar mustache lifting in a smirk. Tonight’s shirt is hot pink, open per his usual to show off the thick pelt of fur on his chest.

“I don’t need a Daddy, Freddie,” I groan. Just because I’m a slight guy doesn’t mean I want to be some old guy’s Boy. I’d settle for someone who doesn’t start out wanting to stick his cock down my throat. Not that I don’t enjoy sucking dick, but that is not the start of a relationship. I don’t want a one-off. I want fireworks. I’m a romantic. I want Ben and Geoff’s story. The way they look at each other, love and fire. Yeah, I want that.

Caleb twirls past me, tray held high, rainbow suspenders sparkling. He is wearing his ‘Emotional Support Bottom’ shorts tonight. His shaggy, bleached blond hair is glittering in the disco's light ball. Caleb is even smaller than me, especially now that I’m finally filling out my five-ten frame. Geoff Vance set me up with a workout and diet regimen to put on some weight, and I love the results: lean cut muscle.

“Ooh, love the jeans,” he says, tugging the pocket of the deep purple skinny jeans I donned tonight. “And this vest is so fun! Love all the purple paisley! Pretty, pretty, pretty! Just like you,” he giggles as he presses a quick kiss to my cheek and spins away to deliver the drinks on his tray.

Caleb is my oldest gay friend, introduced to me by Ben and Geoff at their wedding reception six years ago. Out and proud, he gave me makeup tips and brought me out of my shell.

I watch the dance floor for a bit, shirtless men moving with the beat. A couple of guys are hapless or drunk and just doing their own thing, with no rhythm at all, but no one cares. Several pairs of men draped over each other, in their own private world, exchanging kisses and gropes. A fist in the nape of a guy’s head jolts my cock. Passion. I want that.

A guy slides onto the barstool next to me, and I look over. He is a big bear of a man, his bushy beard extending down his neck, then into his chest hair in one continuous flow, his beer belly out under his leather vest, his dark eyes twinkling. At least his eyes are pretty.

“Want to take a ride?” he asks.

Oh no, is he a biker?

He doesn’t wait for me to ask.

“Got my Harley out front.”

Sigh. Of course he does.

“Thanks, but I am heading home to Daddy,” I reply, and he turns away, looking for another guy to approach.

Freddie looks at me sternly but doesn’t say a word. He keeps secrets like a vault, little jewels of people’s lives, safe from the wrong ears.

The two guys on the TV screen are grunting as they fuck, skin smacking together loudly to the point I think it must be someone clapping their hands off-camera.

Kneeling in front of my Hismith, aka Daddy, I spread out a towel then shimmy backwards on my hands and knees until I feel the head of the slender dildo pressing against my hole, cold with lube. I scoot back a bit more and slowly push against it until the head of the slender dildo slides inside me. I gasp as it enters my ass, then breathe and push back further, groaning as it fills me, the bumps and ridges making themselves known as I rock on it, impaling myself. When I have the entire length inside, I press my head to the floor and push the button on the remote. The machine moves, pushing and pulling the dildo, fucking me slowly.

The guys on TV are really going at it now, and I let myself imagine it is the muscular top fucking me and not this heartless sex toy. The bottom in the movie is begging now, the top leaning over to stroke his cock as he thrusts. I reach my hand down and stroke, just like he is.

The top adjusts the angle he is fucking and the bottom squeals, cum shooting out of his cock as the top pounds his prostate. I shift as well and almost scream as the machine slams on that spot. Fuuuuck that’s good. Sparks flashing over my body as the dildo hits me and my hand speeds up. I increase the speed of the machine and yesssss, just like that, Daddy, just like that… My cum streaks out, painting stripes on the towel, hitting my abs, my face. Over and over the machine keeps going and I keep squirting, letting it drain me. Lungs heaving, I slump forward, turning off the Hismith and pulling free of the dildo. Stumbling to my feet, I turn off the TV, then ball up the towel and leave it on the floor for tomorrow’s agenda, and stagger into bed.

My mind mocks me, as it always does, that there are plenty of guys willing to fuck me. Guys see my smaller frame, my pretty face, and they want to bend me over. Giving another guy that much power over me is just not happening, though. I gave in one time, one fucking time, and I bled for days, couldn’t shit without crying for a week. Matt Kingston never even talked to me after that night. Wrecked me and walked out of my dorm and never looked back.

I know now that just letting him shove his cock in without prepping me with fingers was… naïve at best, stupid at worst. Spit and pre-cum, and a condom is not enough lube, either. I can clearly recall the feeling of him tearing me as he jammed his cock in, the pain of being split so strong that I screamed and twisted away in agony. And he laughed.

“Dude, your asshole just like popped open for my dick,” he chortled, making a popping noise as he took off the filled condom and tossed it into my trash can, not even bothering to tie it.

Yeah, not trusting a guy for that. Daddy is perfect.

The mountain air is crisp and clean this morning. Caleb trudges along next to me, carrying my bag. He’s happily playing with my rangefinder, calling out distances from my ball to the pin and to the edge of the green. I state the club I want, and he passes it without comment. Mostly.

“Tomorrow should be fun,” he says. “First annual Pride Tournament should be a blast. You know Dolly is playing in the Fun Day?”