Dads' Pets

When my wristwatch alarm woke me somehow, a haze covered the world. All my movements were slow and clumsy. Even blinking took seconds. Face held up on palm, my elbow wedged against the mattress. Not looking, I felt around for my phone as my vision doubled and focused over and over. Finally, I found it.

"7:30 AM, 4 Unread Messages, 1 Missed call."

I opened the messages, all of them from Stanley. "Whr u at"... "u ok?"... "need ride?"... "pls txt"

"Sorry, I'm ok. My dad called and came to pick me up," I texted.

My first class started at 8:05 AM. So I'd be at least 10 minutes late if I took the bus, and only if it wasn't running late itself.

":) good" Stanley texted in response.

"Can I still get a ride?" I asked.

"Ya omw, b thr in 10."

Fuck! I scrambled, unzipping my backpack and pulling out my new outfit. It was all wrinkled. Fuck! I pulled up my smooth black creaseless slim-fit pants to my hips. My face scrunched, one eye squinted, I pinched and pulled at the crotch, trying to stretch it to afford me a little more room. Then I buttoned up a short-sleeved shirt covered in a pattern of overlapping two-inch blue circles.

As soon as I'd laced up my shoes, I slung my backpack on and headed to the door. My dad had rolled to his back, his arm bent over his eyes, groaning. I heard a muffled yell from inside after I shut it, but I sprinted to the circle K.

Stanley just pulled into the small parking lot when I was moments away. Out of breath, I opened the door and jumped in.

"Jesus, Bret, did you get any sleep last night?" Stanley asked.

I cleared my throat, "Some," I said.

"You look like you haven't slept in a week."

"I'm fine," I said, looking away.

"I was worried about you--again," Stanley said. "Why can't you sleep?"

"Well," I looked back at him. "Night before, I couldn't get my brain to shut up. Last night, I slept, but not good. Maybe I got too drunk?"

"Could be, I guess," Stanley said, rubbing my thigh. "Booze helps me sleep," he looked over at me, grinning. "By the way, I love that outfit. Where did you get it?"

I glanced at him, confused and asked what he meant. He was disappointed; it was a reference to the movie we tried to watch together last night.

I looked at him, stone-faced.

"Wow, you're grumpy," Stanley said. "Let's make sure you sleep well tonight."

He patted my thigh.

We arrived at school; I ran through my first class door just as the bell rang.

On any day, I struggled to focus during lectures, but today I was out. I slept through most of each of my classes before lunch.

Stanley drove me to a McCafé to get a coffee and a pastry for lunch. I essentially inhaled the dessert, sipped on the hot beverage.

"Feeling any better?" Stanley asked.

"A little, yeah," I said.

He told me he missed me at practice and hoped I'd feel up to coming.

"Will you be early to practice?" he asked with a huge grin and a wink.

"I want to, but I may not make it through practice if, you know, we, uh," I tried to explain.

"It's ok; I know you'll make it up to me," Stanley said matter-a-factly.

I attended. The coach cursed at me but was too exhausted to care much. He moved me to a slower lane full of girls. The girls whispered and giggled at the walls when we stopped between intervals. My strokes felt lazy, my body less buoyant in the water, and my movement sluggish.

In between one of his sets, Keith swam flat over the lane lines toward me. He wanted to know if I was ok, or if something was wrong. I assured him I only needed sleep. Then, before swimming back into his lane, he gave me a tight bear hug. My arms, legs, and neck broke out in goosebumps, the hug lasting longer than straight-man custom dictated.

His best friend is gay, though. Perhaps he's just more comfortable with intimacy than your average jock. I'd expected weirdness and avoidance after the other night; knowingly blowing your load in a guy's mouth after the same guy made moves on you while you slept was reason enough. Stanley could be why. Keith didn't want his best friend to know anything had happened. He also couldn't bully me without his best friend calling him out. I think Keith just wanted to avoid any suspicion. They were both so close; how did they not experiment growing up? Honesty and openness were their thing. Why hide this?

After practice, I held the metal button in with my hands behind my back. The warm water sprayed hard on my neck, spattering on the hard deck around me, and streaming down my back, chest, stomach, and legs. I closed my eyes, jerking back awake when my equilibrium shifted. The other boys' voices disappeared, then a sting from a hand slapping my ass.

I jumped. Stanley stood beside me, laughing.

"Fuck, man. You scared the shit out of me."

"Dinner at my place?" he asked.

"I, uh, I don't know. I need to get some sleep."

"Come on, Keith and Dan are coming too. I'll let you sleep. I promise. Plus, Dan is taking Massage Therapy classes. So we're going to be his models tonight."

I sighed and followed Dan and him to his black Mercedes, E500 on one side of the rear and 4MATIC on the other shimmered in chrome. I knew little about cars, but his looked very expensive. The last time my family had a car, I think I was eight. We walked or took the bus ever since. Dan reached from the back seat and tuned the radio to "Why Don't You & I" by Santana.

"I fucking love this song," Dan said, reciting the words, mostly in tune. Then the station transitioned to Beyoncé's "Naughty Girl." Stanley glanced over at me and winked, theatrically mouthing the words at me, bringing a grin to my face for the first time since early that morning. Stanley moved his hand and rested it on my thigh. "Feeling better?" he asked.

I nodded, but I was sluggish still, my eyes stinging.

From the backseat, Dan reached his hand forward, and we exchanged introductions. Then, shoulders resting against both our black leather seats, head leaning over the console, Dan turned to Stanley and asked what was for dinner.

"Um, Pasta, I think. Look at my texts, Bret. He told me earlier."

Stanley handed me his phone.

I selected the message group from Stanley's redheaded dad. "He said we're having, 'Mushroom and Leek Pasta,'" I squinted at the screen and said, "Is that a typo? What is a 'Leek'?"

Stanley laughed and said, "You're so cute. A leek is just a type of onion."

"Why don't they just call it an onion then?" I asked.

"Well, silly, it's because it's yummier than a regular old onion," he answered.

Neither onions nor mushrooms were things I liked. The thought brought the taste of Dad's potato and onion soup to my tongue, so bitter, spicy, and crunchy. The onions were always so strong, my eyes watered.

Dan was the shortest guy of the club swimmers, about an inch or two shorter than me. His hair was black, short, spiked up the middle in a faux hawk. He had a rounded face, brown eyes, and smooth brown skin. He didn't display the lean musculature that Stanley and Keith did, more weightlifter than swimmer.

"Keith is coming, right?" Dan asked.

"Yes, Dan," Stanley answered, giving him a look in the rearview mirror.

"Keith is straight, so mind those hands. If he's gonna do anything with a guy, he's gonna do it with me," Stanley said.

I turned to both of them and laughed, but they didn't. Instead, there was a seriousness in Stanley's voice. He stared back at Dan, and I coughed.

Dan cleared his throat and, affecting a southern belle twang; he said, "Why, Stanley. I am mortified you'd even suggest such a thing."

He batted his eyes.

A hard gulp scraped down my throat. Keith probably knew Stanley, his best friend, would want to be the one to experiment with Keith if any were to be had. I wonder if Stanley loves him even more than a friend. A glance at Keith and just a few moments of his time sufficed to understand why.

Keith was right. We must keep the details of that night a secret. I'd never seen Stanley upset or mad, but I was sure it was something I didn't want.

"Dan, you're gay?" I asked.

"Whatever would make you say that, dear?" Dan answered, continuing the affectation.

I smiled, big.

"What about you, handsome?" he asked, batting his eyes.

"Uh, I'm, uh," I said. "Trying to, uh, figure things out, I guess."

In his normal voice, he said, "Whatever you say, rudder," exaggerating an eye roll and pushing against my shoulder.

"Rudd--."

"Dan, stop teasing poor Bret," Stanley said.

They smiled at one another through the mirror.

Did the team call me rudder behind my back? My throat tightened, and my stomach fluttered. I'll ask Dan during our massage.

We parked in Stan's garage and walked to the kitchen.

"Welcome, boys," Jake called from the kitchen over the sizzle of leeks and mushrooms. "Dinner'll be ready soon."

"Ciao, Mijo," Stanley's Paolo said, peering over at the line of boys entering the living room, "Ciao Bellos."

He sat on the couch, legs crossed in dress pants and a pink button-down, the top three unbuttoned.

"Oh, Dan, massages tonight?" Paolo asked, his tone elevating as he finished his question.

"Sì, Papa. Sei eccitato?" Dan asked if he was excited.

"Sì, sì," Papa answered.

I leaned towards Stanley's ear and asked if Dan spoke Italian in a whisper. Stanley said he didn't; he just had a few phrases that he used with Papa.

"And why does he call him Papa?" I asked.

"You can call him Papa if you want," Stanley said. "He loves that."

"Does that mean--."

"It means whatever it needs to mean," Stanley answered, probably familiar with the line of questioning. "Papa loves to nurture. He's passionate about it."

Stanley added, "And to answer your next question, yes, my dads have an open relationship."

My jaw was low, lips separated. I stared blankly at the wall of young Stanley's. Paolo was up and about, wine in hand. He hugged Stanley and kissed him on the lips, then Keith on both cheeks, the same for Dan. He hugged me tight and subtly swished his leg against my crotch. My eyes popped. He kissed both my cheeks and asked the group to sit and whether they wanted wine.

Keith indicated he'd pass on the wine, Dan and Stanley opted in.

"Uh, I probably shouldn't," I said.

"Perchè no?" Papa asked.

"Uh, does that mean--"

"Why not," Stanley answered.

I explained that I thought maybe the drinks from last night hadn't agreed with me. Paolo said something in Italian and recommended I drink just a glass with dinner and no cocktails. I agreed by impulse. Sweat dripped from my armpits and my face searing hot. Papa was making me nervous, and my cock swelled, anticipating him copping another feel. I fanned myself with a hand.

Stanley sat on my right and asked if I was hot. I didn't answer, but he stood and walked to the thermostat. The walls hummed, and cool air drifted over my skin, and Stanley returned to his seat next to me. Papa placed his half-full glass before the seat to my left.

Wine wasn't something I'd sampled. My parents needed alcohol. Cheap and strong were best. I didn't think wine met either of those criteria, so it was never around the house nor offered to me growing up.

Paolo filled the clear glass in front of me halfway with transparent yellow liquid. I took hold of the glass bowl with my hand and studied it close to my face.

Jake served the pasta, leaning over each of us, his lower torso inches from our heads. The scent of his cologne made my skin tingle. Once he'd filled each bowl, he sat opposite Paolo. Elbows above the table, they all joined hands. I looked to my left and right. Papa and Stanley suspended their hands for me to hold. I did, and Paolo closed his eyes, bowing his head, reciting something in Italian perhaps. I couldn't tell.

"Amen," Papa finished. The others echoed.

While I was wrapping the noodles around my fork, Stanley's palm traveled to my thigh. I was sure he was going to notice.

His hand drifted slightly inward, and I felt him trace the fabric that pinned my hard-on to my right leg with a finger. Then he squeezed it. He didn't look at me, but I saw him smile as he drew a fork of pasta to his lips.

"Mm," Stanley said with a hint of sensuality. "That's good."

Jake smiled with closed lips, bringing his napkin to his mouth. "Glad it turned out," he said.

"Yes, it's very good, uh, Jake," I agreed, slurping my first mouthful.

It was good, to my surprise. So creamy and full of flavor, nothing like what I had at home. Maybe I did like onions, perhaps even mushrooms. They'd just never been prepared like this.

"Wow," I said. "This is ~very~ good." My pace increased, my eyes wide.

Dan and Keith agreed.

"That makes me so happy. Thank you," Jake said, his face revealing some red.

"Pasta water needed a bit more salt, amore mio," Paolo said, placing a hand on my upper thigh, his pinky maybe a millimeter from my crotch.

Jake agreed with Paolo about the salt.

Papa rubbed the side of his pinky against the front of my pants. The heat trapped under my clothes caused droplets of sweat to form on my face.

I excused myself to the bathroom, and Stanley followed me. When I told him what was wrong, he brought me a fresh thin, white, short-sleeved undershirt and indigo basketball shorts, but to my irritation, no underwear. He told me it'd help keep me cool.

When I returned to the living room, Jake and Paolo gathered our dishes and rinsed them in the kitchen. Keith and Stanley started homework on their laptops while I followed Dan upstairs. First, he asked me if I liked massages. I told him I didn't know; I'd never had one. Dan gasped, dubious. Then he reassured me that everyone in the house thought he gave good ones, only to think aloud that perhaps any free massage might be good or good enough.

We passed an open bedroom door. Inside, the carpet was stripped to bare concrete, freestanding chrome shelves pushed against the walls, and on each shelf three fish tanks, but no, no fish.

"You ok?" Dan asked.

My clenching muscles locked me in place from toes to brain. Then, lungs paralyzed, eyes glued open, a low buzz evolved to a loud ring in my ears. Inside one terrarium, a creature slithered.

Before I caught up with myself, I was clawing at Stanley's front door.

"What's wrong, Bret?" Stanley yelled after me.

The others murmured in confusion and concern.

Finally, when I reached the sidewalk, I stopped fleeing, my breath heavy.

Arms and legs shook wildly; teeth chattered, chest spasmed. I sat on the curb, covering my closed eyes with my hands.

The boys and dads ran out and circled me. A few palms rubbed my shoulders and back.

"Sssssssssnake," I blubbered through my sobs.

"Mio Dio," Paolo said. "You hate snakes?"

I confirmed with an exaggerated nod.

I sobbed, drool stretching from my lips.

"It's ok, Bello," said Stanley's Papa, "they can't get out, and they're upstairs."

"Yeah," the group agreed in chorus.

"I can't, I can't, I can't," I said. "Don't make me go back in there. I can't do it. I can't," I pleaded.

They were quiet for a few seconds, some hands still patting and rubbing me.

"Bret, hey, man, why don't you come over to my house. No animals or pets there. Except for my sisters and brother, that is," Keith said, forcing a chuckle.

Keith pulled at the tips of my fingers on my forehead, hands still covering my eyes.

I gazed up at his beautiful face and reassuring demeanor and let him pull my hands from my face.

Keith held my hands with his, walking next to me, a pair of hands stacked on each shoulder. I sniffled and fought a fresh urge to collapse and sob. We climbed the stairs in Keith's home; I heard footsteps behind us. I twisted my neck to see Stanley following.

Stanley was gentle, rubbing my back, "Sh, it's ok."

"Yeah, you're ok, Bret," Keith said as he ushered me into his bed, pulling the blankets down.

Keith sat in front of my chest, rubbing my arm. Stanley planted himself behind my butt, moving his palm up and down my thigh. Both tried to calm me. I appeared calmer, but mainly because Keith's gorgeous body distracted me. Would he let me sleep in his room again? I seriously doubted it.

A good half-hour passed. Keith lay stomach up, his head on another pillow, while Stanley spooned me, his muscular, solid arm wrapped tight across my ribs.

In my ear, "You doing ok, Bret?" Stanley asked.

Keith looked at me, and I nodded, twisting my neck to see Stanley's face; he gave me a peck on the cheek.

"So, snakes aren't your favorite; I'm guessing," Keith said.

I smashed my eyes closed, tensing with both fear and embarrassment.

"Surprising, right?" Stanley said. "I mean, how can you like dick ~and~ be scared of snakes?" They laughed.

Shame hollowed out my chest. It didn't make sense to me either. The mere sight of one, or vague movement resembling one, sent me into a panic.

"I--I--um, I--hate them," I said.

They laughed, "That much is clear," Stanley said. "But why?"

"I--I--," my voice was weak, tone wavering. "I don't know, s-s-s-something to do with, uh, um, a movie or hike or trip or something."

I trembled.

"It's ok," Keith said. "You don't have to explain, don't think about it."

"Jake and Papa are asking about you," Stanley said. "Can I tell them you're ok?"

I nodded.

Stanley released me and sat up on the bed. He told us he would make a quick trip next door and let them know I was fine, grab a little refreshment, and let Jake and Papa know they should get their massages.

A stab of guilt pierced my chest. I'd ruined everyone's night, missed out on my first massage. Fuck, I'm such a loser, a worthless, annoying loser.

I rolled onto my back. Keith swung his legs to the side of the bed and sat up as well. "Do you play Halo?" He tugged on a string dangling from a handle connected to a white cylinder on the ceiling.

As he pulled down, a flat white screen unrolled. I looked above the frame of the bed; there hung the projector.

"You're shitting me. You have a projector in your room?" I said.

Keith smiled, his chin tilting away from me, eyes avoidant, a hint of pink in his smooth, handsome face.

"Yeah, I got it for my birthday," he said. "Stanley and I play Halo on it."

I sat up, my nose pressed between my brows. "So, you two just lay on your bed and play games?"

A huff pushed out Keith's nose, his head tilted, denying the implication.

"So, the two of you, uh, never--," I asked.

"No," he answered, starkly louder. "I mean, no," he said again, less emphatically.

"Well, uh, it probably isn't uh, my place but, is there a reason, like, why?"

Keith studied my face as if failing to understand the question.

"Well, I'm straight, you know, um, and, uh, that means, that is--," he trailed off into silence, his eyes evading mine.

He shook his head, jaw misaligned. He sucked his tongue through his teeth with a click and confessed that the other night with me was his first time. A brew of shame, privilege, and fear stirred in my blood.

After a pause, he shook his head again, face dropping downward, "What you did was fucked up man, I can't stop thinking about it."

"I'm so sorry, Keith. I shouldn't ha --"

"No, you shouldn't have, and you shouldn't do that to anyone," he added.

Tears started to well, my eyes trembled. I felt so low, so small, full of regret, wishing I could go back in time and stop myself.

"But I liked it," Keith said, finally squashing the silence.

Still looking away from me, he said, "I wish I could stop, you know, thinking about it."

I tried to think of something reassuring to say, but what? What wouldn't seem patronizing or flirtatious?

If I was honest, I wanted Keith to be the one to take me, to take my virginity. Keith wasn't too big, which is perfect, isn't it? For your first time? My stomach fluttered, and my cock grew inside my pants.