I was just messing around on the computer, checking out the male-male dating Web sites, looking for something to turn me on.
On one of the sites I had gotten a view hit of my profile from someone named Ready4Daddy. Well, at sixty, I was definitely a daddy. I also was pretty randy.
I clicked on his profile. An immediate sense of nice looking, tall, slim, in his forties, good, angular features, elongated face. Looking casual and laid back in an Adidas sweat shirt. Good smile. That smile, though. Oh my god, I thought, I knew him. He was the singer in that band at the club I sometimes went to. Nice tenor voice. I had latched into his singing, because I was a tenor too—and I'd sung in a band in my younger days. And when I sat in his club and listened to him singing, I hoped that my voice had been as good then as his was now.
I had liked the look of him in the club. And here he was, saying he was looking for a daddy. But his profile was unlike most. He wasn't coy; he was straightforward. He liked to suck cock. And he declared he was an expert in it. But he posted that he didn't like being fucked. Not my concept at all about daddies. When I was being a daddy, I was fucking someone who liked being fucked by older men—usually holding him in a close embrace from behind and fucking him slow and deep, while he murmured how good daddy was being to him, which helped keep my cock hard. I didn't think of sucking cock in that way.
I felt my juices rise. I didn't get much sex anymore, but when I did—finding a young man on the street who I fancied and who claimed he fancied me—it was usually a furtive fuck behind a park building in the bushes, me holding him close from behind and fucking him slow and deep. I had this really nice, long, thick cock—it was really the best feature I had now. And, if I had a guy to fuck, I no longer went through all the preliminaries. I just turned him and bent him over and stroked him until he whimpered that he'd had enough.
But here was a guy who was proud of his blow jobs—who declared that he would and could suck off a daddy—deep throat and tongue and teeth him—so that he would be fully satisfied. He was proud of being a singer, but he boasted that his best instruments were his lips and teeth on a daddy's cock.
He had me dribbling precum here just in reading what he said he could and would be willing to do to me. It was all such a new and different way of looking at sex for me. And he was right here, in town, where I knew where to find him.
I didn't believe he could do what he claimed he could. But I was willing to let him try.
My hands trembled as I tapped out a message to him on the Web site. "You've seen a photo of what I have. I know where to find you. I don't believe you can make me warble as you claim. But if you want to try, tell me where and when."
Without hesitation, the response came back: "I know who you are too. I can make you hit a high A. Here at the club, now, if convenient."
He was still singing a set when I entered the club. The crowd was sparce, but the club wasn't deserted. All guys. It was that sort of club. And, although the music was great, not all of the guys were paying attention. There were booths lining the two side walls, with translucent screens between them and the central room where the band was set up on a low stage at the far end of the room. Some of the sounds coming from these shadowed booths were not in keeping with an attentive band music crowd. Some of them were moans speaking of other activities going on in the shadows.
Now that I was here, I wasn't as sure of myself as when I had impulsively sent Ready4Dad that message, and I hesitated, ready to turn and leave the club.
But he had seen me enter and he stopped singing and moved quickly to me and took my forearm in his hand. He was as tall and slim and willowy as his picture on the Web site had indicated. He certainly didn't look strong—certainly not as strong as I was, having been a serious body-builder all of my life—but that firm grip on my forearm held me there, in place.
"You want the blow job of your life?" he murmured to me. "I know you were a singer once—a tenor—when was the last time you hit a high A?"
"Almost never," I responded nervously. "Are you always this straightforward?"
"Yes, it saves time," He answered. And then he laughed. "Guys either want a blow job or they don't. Why should I beat around the bush? I love sucking cock. That's what gets me off."
"I am a second tenor. A high A was a real strain, even when I was well practiced."
"Well, when I go down on you, we will practice and practice and practice until you do hit that high A. I'm more interested in whether I can deep throat you. I saw that photo of your cock. Impressive. I'll cream myself if I can swallow it all."
I couldn't believe we were having this conversation. It was surreal. Standing here at the door of the club, in the main hall, with him just having a hand on my forearm, and he was telling me in straightforward terms what he claimed he could do to me with his mouth. I could feel something else straightening out, and, looking down, he could see it too. He smiled.
"Come with me," he said and he started to gently guide me with that hand on my forearm.
"Where?" I asked dumbly.
