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An August 18, 2008 headline on


Heck. That’s old news to the authors of the stories in this collection, and to you readers. Daddy-son relationships have been part of the queer male community’s sexual tapestry since forever…

Oh. Wait. That story is about gay men becoming daddies through adoption, through sperm-donor surrogacy, even through sex with supportive lesbian and straight women friends. Daddies in the father-son (or -daughter) sense. Which is a delightful development: families really should come in many flavors.

These stories…well, Daddies have had queer sons since well before the queer baby boom of the past decade or so. And some of those relationships are definitely familial in form, even if not particularly familiar to repellent fundamentalists: see Barry Alexander’s boy-into-man Night Visit, or Ethan Thomas’s testing-the-boundaries Absolution, or Elazarus Wills’s man-in-mourning Moving Past Perfect, or Jeff Mann’s nurturing-Daddy Lost River, or Martin Delacroix’s settling-down-with dp n=11 folio=x ? Daddy Lover, for example—stories where two men, years apart in age but bonded by more than sex, form their own gay families, based as much on love as on sex.

Of course, sometimes the relationships are just about sex: Thom Wolf’s bad-ass The Amateurs and Mike Bruno’s brash Birthday Boy are purely that—two tales about the acted-on attraction between a younger man and an older man. Sometimes the relationships are sexual with an emotional underpinning: T. Hitman’s dark meditation on need in The Die Is Cast or Jamie Freeman’s consideration of one son’s Daddy/father complexities in For Luck.

Sometimes a Daddy will mentor a son: Xan West’s wistful Missing Daddy is about learning and moving on. Sometimes a son will memorialize a Daddy, as in Simon Sheppard’s poetic elegy, Daddy-o.

Sometimes an older man is drawn to a younger man: Keith Peck’s Pillow Talk exemplifies that dynamic with an unsettling edge. Sometimes, younger men are drawn to older men: Dale Chase’s sensitive Coach celebrates that fact. Sometimes age doesn’t define who is the Daddy and who is the son: Doug Harrison’s Jungle Daddy illustrates how Daddy/son can be as much a state of mind as it is a chronological condition.

And for readers who don’t think of themselves as either Daddies or sons—but were drawn to this collection of Daddy erotica out of curiosity—Shaun Levin’s The Big Homo Daddy’s Guide to Lovemaking is just the how-to read you need.

Richard Labonté

Bowen Island, British Columbia

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Thom Wolf

It was a mild morning in July when Toby decided to walk the long way home through Jubilee Park. He had just returned from a five-month trek across Europe. It was another two months before he left for University, and Toby already found life back in suburbia oppressive. Boring. He’d been out with friends the night before, school chums who had grown apart in the short time he’d been away. Even Johnny, who he’d been close to since nursery, had a new girlfriend and a new job, and a life that no longer had room for Toby.

He had spent the night on Johnny’s sofa, after a boozy session in the town. He lay awake most of the time, as his drunken state evolved into the inevitable hangover, and listened to bouncing, orgasmic sounds from the bedroom above. He washed and dressed and left the house on Sunday morning before anyone else woke up.

It was a shitty start to a beautiful day, bright and dewy, reminding him of those early starts he had in Spain, where he had worked for dp n=13 folio=2 ? a couple of weeks picking grapes in a vineyard. He already wished that he had not come home so soon. There was so much more of the world he could have seen in the two months remaining.

Toby was a handsome young man. At nineteen he had grown into his tall, finely formed frame. When he was younger he felt awkward, gangly, graceless. But he had grown; the stamina it took to cross Europe, and the stints of hard work, had caused him to fill across the shoulders and torso. All that walking with a backpack had given him a deep suntan and strong backside. He missed the exercise.

He would take the long way home, and then after breakfast he would head to the gym for the rest of the morning; best to keep those pecs in fine form.

The park was quiet. Not really a surprise, given the hour and day of the week. Toby enjoyed times like this, moments of peace and quiet. He breathed in deep and kept a steady pace.

The man was sitting alone on one of the benches beside the Bowling Green. Toby would have walked past without much thought, but something was wrong. The man was older, with gray hair but a solid build. He hunched forward, his head bowed, gripping his nose between the thumb and index finger of his right hand. Then Toby noticed the blood decanting through his fingers to the pavement.

Are you okay? he asked.

The man shuddered and raised his head, still gripping his bloody nose. His eyes roamed distrustfully over Toby. What do you want? he sniffed. His left hand gripped a small digital camera. His knuckles were white.

Toby swung his overnight bag down from his shoulder and fumbled inside. I might have a handkerchief. You need to keep plenty of pressure on that. What happened? Did it just come away?

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The man’s eyes remained distrustful, though the tension in his shoulders eased. Somebody punched me.

Did you know him?

No. He was a stranger.

Psycho. Toby had reached the bottom of his bag. No hankies. Here, you’ll have to use this. He handed the man last night’s tighty-whiteys. Don’t worry, I only had them on a few hours. They’re pretty clean.

The man’s eyes narrowed, with intrigue rather than hostility. He took Toby’s worn underwear and held it to his nose.

Press on tight, Toby said. It’s the only way you’ll get the bleeding to stop.

What are you wearing now?

The same. Another pair. It’s all I ever wear really. They’re my favorites. They give support, you know. I don’t like boxers. Can’t stand flapping about like that.

The man laughed through the white cotton, which was beginning to stain. Wise lad.

After a while he tentatively took Toby’s offering away from his face. I think it’s stopped He folded over the underwear, finding a clean swath of cotton, and wiped the blood from his mouth and chin. Thanks, son. I owe you a new pair. These will never come clean again.

Toby saw the man’s face in whole for the first time. He was tanned and handsome, with a wide mouth and steely eyes. There were a few flecks of brown in his hair, but on the whole it was gray and cut very short. He had a neat beard, also predominantly gray. He had started to recede slightly at the front but wasn’t really bald.

Toby liked older men. He always had. Guys his own age were okay too, especially fit, beefy lads, but there was something about a good-looking older man… They didn’t always have to dp n=15 folio=4 ? be that handsome. A part of Toby didn’t care about looks, or age, or clothes. It was more instinctive. It wanted to rut and fuck and make connections. It didn’t matter if the other man was eighteen or eighty. When that part of Toby made its connection, nothing else mattered.

I’m Brian, the man told him. I came out early to take pictures. It’s a hobby. Nothing special, I’m not a professional or anything, but I like to mess about with my camera and the editing suite at home. I woke early and it was a beautiful morning, so I thought I’d come down here and see what I could take. He turned the camera over in his hands as he spoke. A big shithouse came by. I knew he was trouble. I could smell the drink on him. At first I thought he wanted to steal my camera, but he started on the personal stuff: homo, pervert. I think that’s when he decided to hit me.

Toby put a strong arm around Brian’s shoulder. Let me take you home, he said.

Brian lived in a large old house in the Middlestone area. The place had been gutted from the top down. He told Toby he had done all the work himself. He led the boy onto a decked area in the backyard and gave him a Coke while he went back inside to wash the blood from his beard. He left his digital camera behind on the table.

Toby remembered Brian’s earlier explanation, about going to the park that morning to take pictures. He looked at the camera, a silver Sony, and wondered how those shots turned out. Brian said he wasn’t much more than an amateur, but he would have to have more than an idle interest to get up early on a Sunday. He picked up the camera to look at what Brian had taken. There were more than forty photographs on the memory card. Toby scrolled through them, modest shots dp n=16 folio=5 ? of the park, of the green and the flowerbeds.

I don’t only shoot scenery, Brian said, coming back from the house. He had changed his clothes and was now wearing denim shorts and a clingy white T-shirt. His chest and pecs were strong and manly. He had the thick, softly muscled belly of an older man, rounded without being fat.

Sorry. Toby turned off the camera. I shouldn’t have looked without asking first.

There’s nothing on that card you shouldn’t see. Brian came across the decking. He held a thick cigar in one hand, as yet unlit, and sat across from Toby. He raised one leg onto an empty chair, thighs spread open. The younger man could not stop himself from looking at Brian’s crotch. He had cruised enough men to recognize an invitation as it brewed.

I have a blog, Brian said, striking a match to light his cigar, drawing deep before exhaling a sumptuous cloud of smoke. I post my photos there. Like I said, it’s just a hobby.

Toby continued to stare at the older man’s groin. Could he detect a swelling? His own cock was certainly reacting. What else do you like to photograph?

Cocks, Brian inhaled again, and arses. I especially like a nice arse. I think yours is quite magnificent, Toby. From what I’ve seen of it so far. You’re not like a boy at all. That’s a real rump of beef you’ve got there.

Toby’s hand wobbled as he reached for the glass of Coke.

Would you like to show me? Brian pressed.

Toby coughed nervously and nodded. He stood up, hands already unfastening his belt. Brian palmed the camera from the table, turned it on. Toby shucked his jeans to thigh level. Want me to take them off?

Take your time. Just turn around first. Let me take a look at you.

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He did what he was told, bunching his T-shirt above his waist to give Brian an unhindered view of his tight white briefs. He heard the click of Brian’s camera. A readjustment as he leaned closer. Another click.

You have a lovely big butt for such a young lad, Brian said, observing every curve and ripple through his camera. Shove it back at me a little bit. Nice. Do you play much sport? That looks like a rugby arse to me.

I used to. I don’t have as much time these days. Will you put this on your blog? He jerked his right hip, presenting his bountiful buttocks.

Would you like me to?

I…think so, yeah.

Click. I think my buddies would like to see it. Click. You can slip your shorts down a little. Not too fast, now, take your time.

Toby inched his underwear down. His buttocks were full and round, with downy brown fuzz that spread outwards from a deep crack. He took an ample cheek in each hand and widened the view to show his hole. Brian imprisoned every line, every hair, every intimate spectacle with his camera. Toby tightened and relaxed his hole, showing everything.

That’s a mighty fine arse, the older man purred. Can I touch you?

Yes, Toby croaked. He wanted nothing more.

Brian clamped his cigar between his teeth and put the camera in his left hand. His right hand cupped Toby’s juicy butt cheek. He squeezed, not too hard, like he was testing a piece of fruit. Satisfied, he ran his fingers down the valley, where Toby’s soft arse hair was beaded with tiny drops of sweat. Click.

Toby arched his back, presenting his butt to the older man. He breathed in deep as a cloud of smoke swirled around him. The camera clicked once more as Brian’s fingers slipped deeper dp n=18 folio=7 ? between Toby’s cheeks. Brian poked at his hole, not going far, before bringing his fingers to his nose and inhaling. Your butt smells great, he said.

For the next ten minutes Brian directed Toby into a series of casual poses. It was not long before Toby was entirely naked, showing off his well-built body for the camera. He bent across the yard table, one leg raised on the edge to show his ripe boy hole. Brian zoomed and focused with his camera, capturing everything.

When Brian had taken enough photographs, he put down the camera and took off his shirt. Toby remained in position, laid across the table, butt hole open and ready. He cast a glance across his shoulder, watched as Brian shoved his shorts to his ankles and stepped out of them. He was naked. His cock was an uncut monster, heavily veined and broad, with hairy, low-swung balls.

Oh yes, Toby thought, I’m really going to get it.

Brian spat a tobacco-infused gob into his right palm and slathered his cock. With the cigar steady in his mouth, he pulled Toby’s hips to the edge of the table, and rubbed his cock slowly up and down his crack. Toby moaned as the blunt head nudged his hole, glazing his opening with an effective mix of saliva and precum. Soon he was feeling nice and sticky in the arse region. Brian took hold of his waist and drove into him. His slick dick went ball deep with little opposition from Toby. They both groaned.

Brian toked proudly on his cigar as he fucked the younger man, satiating two of his great passions. Toby remained passive and compliant, as a good bottom should. He squeezed when Brian told him to, loosened his ring when directed. In time Brian flipped him onto his back, spread his legs like a wishbone, and plunged back inside. The older man drooled precum that left Toby’s rectum glossy and smooth. The most joyous sounds—squelch, slurp, slop—emanated from his arse as they fucked. dp n=19 folio=8 ? The new position allowed Brian to kiss him, exhaling hot smoky breath into his mouth. Toby devoured his kisses as passionately as his cock.

I want to cum inside you, Brian said, smothering Toby with his mouth.

Toby murmured a muffled assent, hitching his butt higher.

Brian raised himself above the younger man and gave it to him in long, steady strokes, enjoying the buildup until he unloaded with a deep-chested roar. He lay on top for a few moments, catching his breath. Toby held his broad, sweaty body tight, breathing in the smell of their sex.

Brian reached for his camera and turned it on. Now, he said, when I pull out I want you to hold onto my load for a while, until I get some shots of that freshly fucked hole. Then, when I tell you to, squirt that spunk out of your butt. Okay, son?

Color burned in Toby’s face but he nodded.

Brian withdrew his long cock slowly, careful not to bring too much of his load out with him. He got down on his haunches and started snapping with the camera again. Toby’s arsehole was beautiful, wet and freshly fucked. Brian inhaled its savory odor, richer even than the cigar he’d been smoking. Toby kept his knees held into his chest, his arse open to its maximum.

Okay, Brian said at last. Squirt it out, son.

Toby found it hard to unclench and was mortified as the first loaded fart issued from his rump. He heard Brian’s gasp of delight and felt a warm trickle of cum down his butt crack.

Keep going, Brian said. Click. I know I left more in there.

As the second wet eruption came from his arse, Toby could no longer contain his own excitement. He grabbed his cock and tossed himself off until his belly was as spunk-splattered as his behind.

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Toby came a lot more over the next week as his photographs appeared on Brian’s blog. He’d never seen himself like that before, so open and raw, so animal. He loved