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Big Dicks

The drill is the same as always: If the law says you shouldn”t be here, go somewhere else.

Needless to say, this story is pure fantasy. It concerns intergenerational love with all its aspects, sex included. Still, it is more the softer kind of erotic story than hardcore non-stop pornography, gentle rather than heavy, nothing is being penetrated here.

However, if you find love and eroticism within a family indigestible, I think you need to find something else to read.

I am getting a bit tired of excusing faulty language, but I nevertheless feel I had better clarify that I”m not a natural English speaker.

If you should happen to enjoy my story, don”t hesitate to let me know. I”m ail

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A Christmas story by Magnus Winter


“When a father gives to his son, both laugh. When a son gives to his father, both cry.” — William Shakespeare.




The room lies in semi-darkness. Details are pleasantly obscured, mostly because I”ve put my glasses away. I do this a lot when twilight comes. Everything loses its sharpness, its distinction, all edges are pleasantly fuzzy. It soothes me, it wraps me in a misty calm, it harmonizes with my on the whole crepuscular existence.

I guess I”ve been alone for too long. Self-indulgence is a stubborn habit to break. Along with several other quirks, if I”m honest, but I try. I try, because right now I”m not alone. Across from where I sit, Samuel, whom I”ve hardly seen for six years, lies on his back on the chaise longue, a rather Freudian piece of furniture, Freudian in the sense that the mythical doctor had a similar one in his office. Little Oliver lies on top of him, both asleep, both naked.

Their blurred bodies stir contradictory feelings in me. Joy and regret. Comfortably homey, but also disturbingly alien. I haven”t seen Samuel naked since he was twelve, when he suddenly started to wear sweatpants around the house and jammies in bed, contrary to our up till then casual practice of mild indoors nudism. A habit I took up again when he left home. Seeing him now, so carefree and natural, brings back memories I”ve worked hard to neutralize.

Thinking he hasn”t changed, and not wanting him to feel uncomfortable, I wear my old tartan pajama pants, despite my preference and despite the temperature in the room, which calls for nakedness. Unnecessary, as it turns out, for now I”m watching him with his little Oliver, belly to belly, skin to skin. I resist picking up my glasses, the two of them will remain softly indistinct and out of focus, and beautiful … beautiful.

– – – – –

Feeling suddenly restless and tense, I get up. Walk quietly over to the other end of the room and switch on the picture lamp above the only really good painting I own, every now and then turning to look at the man and the boy. The painting, accentuated by the lamp and coming alive in the darkened room, creates a counterweight to the pair on the chaise longue, soft skin tones close in on me from two sides. I go and sit on the windowsill, that way both works of art are within the reach of my peripheral vision. Yes, works of art. Both bought by me, both too expensive, but both worth it. I see that now.

Movements draw my attention. Little Oliver”s tiny butt is moving. Long, fluid back and forth thrusts. Small, rapid up and down movements. Samuel lies completely still, just holds the boy as he has held him all through their nap. A strange sound, like the muffled squeak from a rubber duck. The humping stops. Silence again fills the room.

Then Samuel”s deep voice.

“Ollie. Loo!”

He rises quickly, boy still clinging to his torso, and disappears into the depths of the house. I”m left alone with goosebumps that hurt my skin.

– – – – –

“You let him do that?”

It”s not really a question, more of an astonished comment. I stir batter while Samuel butters the waffle iron. Little Oliver sits on the rug in front of the TV, immersed in the noisy cartoon that flickers on the screen. Small, exhilarated squeals of joyous laughter reach us at intervals through the open door.

Samuel looks up from the counter, cocks his head as he looks at me.

“It”s his game. He wants the feeling, as he calls it. He does it all the time. On his pillow, on his teddy, on me.”

He takes the bowl from me, ladles batter into the iron and closes the lid.

“I never initiate it, if that”s what you suspect.”

He looks defiantly at me.

“I never stop him, though. Because I love it. Love him.”

He lifts the lid, inspects the waffle and puts the lid back down. But I can”t drop the theme.

“You had a semi. I noticed.”

He laughs at me.

“So did you. Those stupid pants of yours are rather inferior when it comes to hiding that kind of stuff.”

I think I blush. My ears feel like it. Samuel opens the lid, flips out the waffle and reloads the iron. I shut up.

– – – – –

Little Oliver, full of waffles and tired as only a five-year-old can be, is out like a light in Samuel”s old room. We”re back in the living room, this time with Samuel in my recliner and me slung out on the chaise longue, leaning on the side-rest. I”ve put on my glasses now, Samuel is as sharp and defined as a hyperrealist”s nude study. He points his finger.

“Why don”t you lose those silly pants. Be like the old days, wouldn”t it?”

“You”re the one who started to wear clothes at home, not me. I thought you were still … you know.”

He chuckles.

“Yeah. God, yeah. I”m not sure why I was so embarrassed. The changes in my body I suppose. I didn”t want anyone to see how stupidly skinny I was, and how weird the small hairs on my dick looked. I don”t know why, but everything felt awkward at that time. Everything, not just my body.”

“You were such a beautiful child. And yes, there were a couple of years … with your zits and your suddenly too long legs and arms … but all in all you grew into a very handsome teenager. Everyone told me what a dashing young man you were.”

“What old people say has no effect on a self-conscious stripling who despite all insecurities thinks he knows it all.”

“Old people! I wasn”t old then, fuck you!”

He reflects for a while. Small frown on his handsome, still young face.

“Weird. It was like an instant regime change. I never thought of you as old before, and then suddenly you seemed embarrassing and ancient and all … and you know, no one else had dads that walked around with their cocks hanging out, and no one else that I knew had a gay father, and I guess I needed to find my own way through everything that felt like obstacles.”

“That”s what growing up is all about. Happens to all of us.”

I stand up, I let those wretched pants slip to the floor. Show myself off, almost.

“Do you still see old people?”

He laughs out loud. Then sobers up.

“Nah. You”re timeless, in a way.”

He sighs.

“I always thought you were more good-looking than my mates” fathers. Even when I felt awkward about you and wished you were someone else. You”re still handsome. You know, don”t you?”

He looks at his feet, wriggles his toes.

“I wanted you to touch me. Like that, I mean. I remember I tried to make you do so when I was like five or six or something. Like Ollie, sort of. You never did. Why didn”t you?”

I don”t answer. I don”t want to go there. It was my heaviest burden: I always wanted to touch him, feel him, feel his skin, kiss his skin, feel his little dick, kiss his little dick, kiss his dick as it grew bigger, but I was scared shitless of giving in to those feelings.

“Adil did, you know.”

I sit up.

“Did he? I never knew. How could I not have known?”

“When he bathed me. He tickled my dick and got it stiff, then sucked on it. Lots of times. He even licked my asshole. It felt good, I mean, more than good, he made me tingle all over. But I always wished it was you who did it.”

Adil. I don”t want to think about him. I”ve locked him away in a secure cell in my brain, hoping he would never escape from there. Adil, whom I thought would be mine forever, Adil with his delicious brown skin and his mischievous crooked smile. Snap out of it!

“But you were so little then! I … I never thought a boy as young as that could have feelings … like sexual feelings. But I guess I”m wrong.”

“It”s why I never stop Ollie when he … well, plays his game. And he”s found this out all by himself, you know, I”ve never … said anything, or done anything that could … Well, we”ve always been naked at home, even when that cunt of a woman who is his mother still lived with us, because it was what I was used too, and it felt right, and familiar, I suppose. And he”s always liked to cuddle and hug and sit on my lap or lie on top of me. Even more so after the bitch left us. And I mean, he”s a boy, it doesn”t take much for a boy to find out that his little pecker is a source of pleasure, because it”s so unavoidable in a way, it”s so there, right? Funny though, I”ve never seen him use his hands or his fingers to pleasure himself, and he”s never shown any interest in my cock, it”s just this … frotting, rubbing, humping. Like a little rabbit. No, more like it”s not masturbation, but lovemaking … and it”s so cute it”s almost devastating.”

I try to swallow. My throat feels so thick. And I have nothing to say, nothing to ask, but I think my eyes may be pleading him to go on.

“I”ll never ask Ollie to touch me or do anything that isn”t his idea. Never. Adil, you know, he asked me to hold his cock, and I did because I thought I should, but I remember I thought his cock was so strange and a bit yucky. Because he was circumcised, I suppose. And once he held his cock close to my face and said I could taste it if I wanted to. But I didn”t want to, and he didn”t make me. But I would have done it if it was you. Because I always thought your cock was so much nicer looking than his.”

Maybe this oughtn”t to go on. Or maybe now is the time for all ghosts to be exorcised? Impossible.

“I would never have done anything like that or asked anything like that of you. Besides, the thought never struck me, not even once, that you could have wanted something like that.”

“Because you”re my dad?”


“I think I would have loved it, you know. Nothing heavy, just more skin, like. Your hugs were always sort of chaste. Not like Adil”s.”

Him again. Fuck him.

“I wish he wouldn”t have … Oh, screw him.”

“I never thought of him as my dad, you know, even if you tried to make me think of you both as … I don”t know, equal? You were my dad, he was just … someone. I didn”t really miss him when he left.”

I feel required to explain something. God knows what, but something feels like it needs to be clarified.

“I was too naïve. And he was too young. I see that in hindsight. But … at the time it felt so exciting, so absolutely right, you know. To mix our sperm and inject it into a womb. To make a baby with him. To have a family, like everyone else. I wanted it so much. And he wanted it too. Or so I thought.”

I need a bit of distraction. And something alcoholic. Unless he”s changed, Samuel doesn”t like whiskey. I lift my hand to signal he should stay put, and saunter into the kitchen, rummaging for a bottle of port I know I have somewhere. I spot it behind tinned peas and packets of beans on the top shelf of the tall cupboard. I sense he”s behind me, and as I stretch up to get the bottle, I feel his hands fleetingly stroke my hips. I turn my head. I do not move away.

“Do I embarrass you?” he asks very softly.

I look into his eyes.

“I love you,” I answer. “Go get the glasses.”

– – – – –

I”m nursing my small glass, swirling the liquid, smelling and sipping. Samuel has poured his first glass down the hatch and is slowing down now on his second. The silence between us does not feel strained, having him with me again feels easy and in a strange way logical. I want him to know.

“I”m glad you”re here. You may not think of this as your home anymore, but it is, you know. Regardless of everything.”

He”s been trying to solve some private problem. I know that expression, and I also recognize the familiar hint of annoyance when I interfere with his unfinished train of thoughts.

“I wasn”t thinking about that. But now that you mention it, if you had been less shitty, and I had been less obstinate, the break wouldn”t have been so … I don”t know, radical? Or thorough? And finding out you were right all along didn”t help, it just made me more reluctant to call a truce. End the cold war, go the walk to Canossa, whatever. I just couldn”t!”

“I don”t know about shitty. I could see what she was like, I just wanted to stop you making a mistake.”

His laughter mocks me.

“Sarcastic and arrogant and superior and cold as ice, if that”s not shitty, I don”t know what is.”

“I know. I wasn”t all that smart about it … and I”m sorry.”

He is silent for a while. Empties his glass, reaches for the bottle but reconsiders. Gets up and walks over to the window. His pale and sleek buttocks clench as he lifts himself up on his toes. God, he”s beautiful.

“It made me furious, you know. Hurt and furious. It does something to you when the one you love more than anyone else cold-shoulders you instead of giving you the support you want. It was like all my love for you went out the window in a flash.”

He turns. Then suddenly comes over and flops down on top of me, dry humps me a few times and gets off me before I have time to react. Leaves me almost stunned.

“She was such a good lay, you know. Made me feel like a real stud, right? That was all that counted. That, and the fact that it was all my own project, nothing that you had influenced … or facilitated in any way. And I needed so much to find myself, to make decisions that weren”t anyone else”s.”

Short laugh again, just a little bit bashful.

“I was totally pussy-blinded, wasn”t I? Because it was so … not gay, if you know what I mean. I needed that so badly!”

I”ve got nothing to say. I shiver as I realize I want him back on top of me. Want his skin next to mine. Want us to be one.

He watches me through narrowed eyes, strokes his chin.

“And now I”m just a replica of you, exactly what I was trying not to be. A single man left alone to bring up a kid. Ironic, isn”t it?”

I stretch an arm out towards him.

“Come back here.”

He raises an eyebrow. But he takes the few steps over.

“Get back on top of me. Just for a little while. But no humping.”

Very gently he lowers himself until he sits on the edge, then like an explosion he throws his body over mine, arms plough their way under me and close around me in a forceful embrace. His breath is warm against my neck.

“How much did I cost?”

My heart shoots up in my throat. My voice has gone on leave.

“You never told me, you know. What you paid that woman to rent her womb.”

I swallow, try to rid my throat of my heart.

“A lot less than you”re worth.”



Everything in my head feels in place. Like every little cog in the machine has found its correct function. I”d be singing if I wasn”t so tone-deaf.

I hear the pitter-patter of little bare feet behind me. A suppressed giggle, and then a pull at one of my apron strings. The bow comes loose.

I turn my head, spatula in hand. There he is, a skinny little boy wearing nothing but a shy smile.

“Good morning.”

Oliver is still tugging at the loose string. He makes the apron dance around my midriff, fastened only by the ribbon around my neck.

“What”th thith?”

I hadn”t noticed his lisp. But then, I haven”t heard him say much until now. He was a bit shy yesterday.

“It”s an apron. I put it on when I cook.”


I put the spatula down, take the end of the string from him and retie my apron. I turn and crouch down in front of him, it felt a bit weird to have his nose almost level with my ass crack. I don”t know why I should suddenly feel like that. Maybe it”s been too long since I was naked around a child.

“When you fry bacon, the fat spatters, and it”s very, very hot and I don”t want my willy to get burnt.”

Oliver looks puzzled.

“Who”th Willy?”

I choke my need to laugh. I flip his little penis with my finger.

“This is a willy. What do you call it?”

He looks at me as if I was daft.

“That”th my pecker, thilly!”

“Okay. Well, would you like to have your pecker burnt by sizzling hot bacon fat?”

He thinks about this. Eventually shakes his head.

“I don”t think tho. Can I have a … napron altho?”

“If you plan to cook for us, we need to get you one, don”t we? But right now, I”d rather you ran off and told your dad there”s breakfast in two minutes.”

He scampers off.

– – – – –

Samuel is different this morning. Just as beautiful in his nakedness as yesterday, but his face is closed, and his manner reserved. Something on his mind. Something heavy. Although my heart is sinking, I do my best to act unafflicted by it.

Little Oliver”s eyes are fixed on his plate where he pushes his bits of bacon around, softly talking to them.

“You thit here and wait. You look thad, tho you can live over here by him. No, no, no! I told you to wait!”

And then he pops the disobedient piece in his mouth. And looks up.


And louder:


Samuel jerks up, stirred out of his cocoon. Oliver points at me.

“Hith pecker ith called Willy!”

Samuel hides his smile behind his hand.

“It”s not a name. It”s just another word for pecker, like penis or dick and lots of other words.”

Oliver is not satisfied.

“It ith a name! For Willy on the other thide ith Willy, and that”th – hith – name!”

Emphasis by spacing the words. Unbeatable logic. Samuel now chuckles openly.

“You”re right. I give in. Now eat your breakfast.”

Little Oliver returns to his bacon game, this time whispering as he rearranges the bits.

“Your name ith Willy. And your name ith Dick. And your name ith Penith. Oh, that”th a pretty name.”

Samuel urges him to stop fooling and eat, then gives me an inquiring look. I explain about the apron thing. Samuel rises, takes his empty plate, and on the way to the sink passes close by me, flips my cock furtively and whispers a sarcastic “willy?” in my ear.

– – – – –

Here they come, fresh out of the showers, little Oliver riding piggyback on his dad. Samuel still looks preoccupied, but less morose than he did before breakfast. istanbul travesti The way his cock flops about as he trots around the room, playing at being Oliver”s horse, fascinates me. It”s such a familiar dick, almost exactly like mine. I find myself wondering if we”d still have twin cocks when we”re hard. Same length, same curve? A sudden urge to find out hits me.

I must get dressed soon. Some shopping is necessary. But it”s so joyful to watch the two of them, so heart-warming. And now little Oliver is put gently down on the floor, and Samuel stretches. Arches his back, pushes his pointed elbows backwards, his lean chest muscles are flattened, and his big, light brown nipples are drawn out to ovals.

Little Oliver comes tentatively towards where I sit, stops and frowns, tip of index finger traveling slowly from one corner of his mouth to the other. His little body is so spotless, so unsullied, like some undiscovered and untouched landscape shielded from human ravages. Slowly he moves on, now he stands right in front of me, looking up at me with big, ice-blue eyes. His little hand comes to rest on my knee.

Samuel sits down in the next chair, straight legs spread out and apart, heels on the floor. Oliver sends him a couple of quick glances, eyebrows raised.

“You can sit on his lap if you want. Just ask.”

He looks at me now. I pat my thighs to give him the go-ahead, and he climbs up. Twists and wriggles and settles with his back leaning in on my belly and chest. I wrap my arms around his slightly convex stomach. His skin is so soft, he”s so light in my lap. I chastise myself for suddenly and unreasonably wishing the pressure of him on my groin had been heavier. I lean in and smell his hair. My shampoo.

Little Oliver squirms and turns and investigates my face.

“You”re my dad”th dad.”

Not a confident statement, more like a suspicion he needs confirmed.

“I am. That makes me your granddad.”

He looks suddenly alarmed. Squirms, like he”s had enough of my lap. I hold him still, though.

“No! Not!”

He looks helplessly at Samuel, then at me again.

“Granddad ith angry … and mean … and thmellth bad!”

Now I”m the one who looks helplessly at Samuel. He shakes his head.

“I”ll explain later.”

I give Oliver”s belly a little squeeze.

“I guess you should call me Finn, then. Dad”s dad sounds a bit too much, don”t you think?”

Oliver whispers my name, like he”s tasting it. Then leans back in on me and settles in my embrace. His belly-skin is so silky and soft under my fingers, I just have to caress it, gently, lightly. I tickle his little innie navel. If only this could go on forever. But it can”t.

“I need to do some shopping. Want to come with me?”

The small, soft body immediately slides down off me with a resounding “YETH!”. I feel the loss of body contact as a sting in my chest.

– – – – –

Samuel shotgun and Oliver playing Lego World on a tablet in the backseat. I take a detour, I want to know about the granddad stuff. Samuel snorts.

“Long story. Short version, Lisa”s father came by to beat me up because she had told him I had given her syph. Which of course I hadn”t, I hadn”t touched her for a year or something. Her decision, not mine. Me and Ollie was never what she really wanted. I mean, her partying and absolutely uncritical fucking around was a byword.”

There”s something harsh and unpleasant in his voice.

“Anyway, she had already left us by then, and was putting the black on me wherever she went. Her disgusting father was just drunk enough to be impossible to talk to. Ollie was there when he attacked me and got really frightened.”

“Shit. How did you get out of it?”

“Punched him in the gut and kneed him in the goolies and told him his daughter was a slut and to get the hell out of my house.”

“No way. You”re not that tough. For real?”

He turns away, looks out the window and mumbles.

“You”ve no idea how tough I”ve had to become.”

He fiddles with his shirt collar.

“Ollie was only three and a bit, but you know, this is the kind of shit that sticks with you. It took ages to calm him down and make him feel safe again. He”s still not over it, as we”ve just seen.”

– – – – –

I hate winter. It doesn”t make the slightest difference that the trees with their white beards and the neighbourhood gardens with their pristine snow-covered lawns admittedly looks beautiful. Back home, all I want is to get inside and get out of those cumbersome winter clothes. But Oliver wants to play outside in the snow.

We build a snowman. The snow is just right for it, moist and pliable. Little Oliver puts lots of tiny, tiny snowballs all over the snowman”s head and titters happily.

“Look! He ith the Corona monthter!”

Then he sticks a bigger snowball in the middle of the figure.

“And hith pecker”th name ith Willy! Willy Corona!”

He squeals and dances around our creation. Samuel fishes a disposable mask out of his breast pocket and hands it to Oliver.

“You had better put this on him, then. We don”t want him to infect us, do we?”

On the way inside, a snowball hits the back of my head. Cold slush drips down my neck inside my collar. I hear conspiratorial giggles behind me, a harmonious blend of soprano and baritone. I”m not mad. I”m strangely happy.

– – – – –

Lunch over, little Oliver wants to nap with his dad, and shows a surprising tendency to sulk, surprising to me at least, when Samuel says he can”t and sends him alone into the living room to watch TV or play a game or whatever. All because I feel the need to have a tête-à-tête with Samuel. I want to know more about why he suddenly showed up yesterday, unemployed and homeless and sheepishly apologetic about having to turn to me as a last resort. The pandemic can”t be all there is to it.

Turns out the bloody virus is, if not the whole reason, at least a fortifying factor, getting him laid off and unable to find another job, unemployment benefits not enough to keep up with alimony on top of mortgage, and hereby speeding up the process he had been planning for a long time, namely that of putting as many miles as possible between himself and his son on one side and his ex and her family on the other.

It can”t have been easy for him, biting the dust and swallowing his pride, seeing his last option was returning to the one person he had sworn never to ask anything of again. I guess somewhere inside him he had never really written me off, but what do I know? I silently hope there is at least remnants of love somewhere underneath all this, not just desperation and need.

He tries to be unemotional about it. He sketches a somewhat half cooked scenario of staying here if I don”t mind too much, just for a few days while looking for a suitable small flat and at least a part time job, believing his childhood city offers more options and possibilities than the bloody one-horse town where he was stuck with an evil ex-wife bleeding him for money and her family from hell banging on his door.

His rather cocky behaviour is gone. The attitude from yesterday, when he seemed to take it as given that he could just waltz in and make himself and his son comfortably at home in my house, was only a put on. There is too much insecurity, too much anguish and too much remorse, and I sense there is also guilt at the bottom here. It”s become paramount for me to expel all these negative emotions.

“When I was eighteen, I had to struggle my way out of my father”s judgemental bigotry. When you were eighteen, you had to fight your way out of my arrogant and demanding love. It all seems such a waste.”

I hold up my hand to stop him from interrupting.

“I need to have my say. Because I”m sorry … no, I”m gutted that I hurt you, that I somehow pushed you away. Every single day since you broke with me has been painful, hollow, full of remorse. Not to say lonely, but that came with the territory, I suppose. So please, please stay. Stay as long as you need. Or like. Or feel good about it. Take your time, don”t just jump at any job or any possibility that should pop up unless it”s something you really, really want. Why not finish your education? You can do a lot of it online, you know. And I work from home now, I can help take care of Oliver until the kindergartens ease up on the restrictions.”

Samuel chews his lip. His lovely features are worried, tense. Eventually he speaks.

“Should have been a delete button here somewhere.”

He gets to his feet and comes round to my side of the table. Touches my shoulder.

“I sure have fucked up. I don”t think I deserve you being nice and all. Feels like I should be punished.”

I cover his hand with mine.

“Well, haven”t you been?”

“Perhaps not enough.”

I sigh. I shake my head.

“You moron. Here you have my house, my welcome, and not to mention my love served up on a platter, so fucking help yourself! This doesn”t come with conditions, you know. Whatever you want, it”s yours.”

He strokes my shoulder up to my collarbone.

“If I had managed not to care so much back then, I wouldn”t feel all this … guilt now. Or whatever it is.”

– – – – –

And we”re good. Well, almost. I can tell there”s still a small part of his mind that struggles with the past. Understandable, because it”s the same for me. And we”re both forcing ourselves to hide it, choke it, drown it, whatever.

In the living room little Oliver is flat on the rug in front of the TV, loud and turbulent Japanese cartoon flickering on the screen. Pillow under his groin lifts his lovely little boy butt up in the air. Samuel nudges me and whispers.

“As expected.”

We sit down side by side on the chaise longue. Samuel”s shoulder rubs against mine as he leans closer and sniggers softly, out of Oliver”s hearing.

“He”s fucking possessed! Once I watched him get his feeling five times in row with hardly a break in between. I bloody wish it was me!”

I watch the little boy, lying still now except for the occasional kick of a leg from the knee, and my heart feels so full it”s about to burst. Samuel and Oliver, old love and new love, their beauty so riveting it hurts. But also something disturbing, something I fear and do not want to dwell on. A yearning, an ache, a hunger …

Oliver is aware of us but doesn”t move. Talks to us, but his eyes are fixed on the screen.

“The girlth, they do ev-ery-thing! And the boyth don”t get to do nothing, and it”th not fair!”

Samuel leans forward, elbows on knees.

“Why don”t you change the channel, then?”

Oliver”s voice has a touch of weariness, as if he”s tired of explaining the obvious.

“Becauthe then I won”t know what happenth! Are you thtupid or what?”

Samuel rises, goes over to the boy, grabs his hips and unceremoniously lifts him up from the floor. The little body folds like a cloth, but immediately after starts twisting and squirming. Samuel lifts and hugs the kicking boy to his chest, laughing. Oliver squeaks in protest, sounds like a badly oiled door hinge. Samuel nuzzles his ear.

“So, how many times did you get your feeling this time?”

Little Oliver keeps kicking the air, trying to wiggle free, but his back is securely held to Samuel”s chest. Then he winds down, crosses his small arms over his father”s holding arms. Whispers, but loud enough for me to hear.

“Jutht one. A little one. It”th better on you.”

Samuel puts the boy down. Looks at me, then at his son.

“How about we go to the drive-in cinema? That”s open, isn”t it? And then some junk food?”

Little Oliver, instantly diverted, jumps up and down.

“Yeth! Do I have to put on clothez?”

“Are you crazy? It”s freezing outside. Of course you have to put on clothes.”

The boy runs off. He knows the house now, feels safe to move about without questions or hesitations. I watch his skinny, but strong little legs and his little butt disappear. I switch to Samuel who follows him. Watch his shoulders and his back that tapers to his narrow waist, his firm, dimpled ass, his lean legs.

My family. I want them to stay. Stay forever.

– – – – –


I half sit, half lie on the chaise longue. In darkness.

Little Oliver has had a distressing dream and it made him very agitated. Samuel has been with him, soothing and calming him for almost half an hour. Now he comes back to the living room. Switches on the standard lamp in the corner, walks restlessly around for a minute. Stops before me, his nipples right in front of my eyes. They look so edible, so delicious.

“What if I don”t find a place to live right away, wouldn”t that hamper you?”

I”m not sure exactly what he”s referring to. My work? My private life?

“Hamper me? In what way? I told you I love having you here.”

“I mean, wouldn”t that put limits to your … your sex life, for instance?”

I make a face.

“What sex life?”

He looks at me as if I”m a peculiar and unknown species.

“Don”t try to tell me you don”t have one. Because I don”t believe it. You”ve had six years on your own, it”s not like all the years you had me restraining you.”

I exhale loudly. Sound almost like a horse.

“Okay, I had a few encounters, none of which made it beyond breakfast. And the pandemic sort of put a stop to that, so … “

I shrug. I burn to kiss his nipples.

“I know. When the virus-thing started, it was just me and Ollie, you know. I didn”t even think of stressing around to get laid. I was fed up with women and having an excuse for not doing anything felt more like relief than anything. I was quite asexual, as a matter of fact, didn”t want anyone near me.”

I search for something to say, but nothing.

He sits down beside me.

“Then Ollie discovered this … this game of his, you know, and I must admit it awakened something in me. Turned the button from off to on, in a way. It”s been kind of … special, I don”t know what else to call it, him having his little orgasms all over the place. It made me horny, right? Especially when he did it on top of me. It took my jerk-off sessions to quite another level, if you get me. And now it”s almost like I crave it. Just lying there without doing anything, feeling him having his fun, and afterwards sneaking off to toss myself off. It”s his innocence that gets to me, I think. So unpremeditated, so without ulterior motives. It”s as far from his sleazy mother as you can get.”

He breaks off, looks at me with inquisitive eyes.

“You think I”m sick, don”t you? You think it”s disgusting that I like him humping me, don”t you?”

I clear my throat, there”s something stuck down there.

“Don”t put thoughts in my head that aren”t there, you little shit. I don”t think you”re sick. If anything, I think you”re lucky.”

Samuel drops his jaw.


I nod. He stares into my eyes.

“You know, it was his little game that made me realize I had always wanted to do the same with you, and it made me sad that it had never happened. Like I had been bereaved of something.”

I can”t avoid it anymore. I have to go with him.

“Is this confession hour? You know, at the time you”re talking about, I was much too concerned about doing the so-called right things to have let something like that happen. I was so into my dream of a conventional family, and that kind of … activity was not on the menu. I”ll admit one thing, though. I loved your perfect little body. So much it sometimes scared me. Actually, I still love your … your perfect body. Watching you makes me happy and delighted and hornier than I care to admit. So there, who”s the sick one?”

He looks hungry, needy.

“Tell me more.”

I close my eyes; I can”t look him in the eyes any longer. And there”s that other thing I”ve wanted to tell him.

“When you were little, I sometimes had flashes of doubts, I used to wonder who you really were, if you get me. I saw the minute I held you for the first time that you weren”t a result of one of Adil”s swimmers, but I couldn”t find anything of me in you either. I sometimes wondered if that woman had fooled us, that she was pregnant with somebody else, and a small sting of being cheated would hit me. I pondered a lot about DNA-tests. But then I found that I didn”t care at all, I loved you and wanted you regardless. Unconditionally.”

I open my eyes.

“I don”t need a DNA-test. I know you”re mine. Your ears are just like mine. The way your hair grows is just like my hair. Your cock is just like mine. You”re mine for sure. Not that it matters one hoot.”

He abruptly leans in and kisses my cheek.

“Finn,” he says. “Dad,” he adds.

I”m suddenly aware that his cock is growing, snaking across his thigh, aiming for his hipbone. I lean back away from him, watching him, watching his cock.

He smiles.

“See? What do you know!”

He”s at full mast now. Takes his hard, stiff pole in his hand and caresses it gently. I don”t have to look down to assess that mine is just as hard.

“They do look alike. Come!”

He rises, grabs my hand and drags me up. We”re the same height, give or take a centimetre. Our cocks have the same upward curve, the same length, the same girth, the same dime-sized spot of head peeping out from supple foreskin. Twins. Clones. I don”t know why it gives me such immense satisfaction. My body quivers.

Samuel leans his forehead against mine and wanks his cock slowly, lovingly. I follow suit. It feels mad, absurd, wild. And eminently and exquisitely awesome. My legs tremble like crazy. I hold on to his neck.

Samuel moves forward, encloses both our raging members in his warm hand, tightens the grip as if he wants his fingers to meet his thumb, an impossible task. His other hand leads my free hand to the same place. Together we detect and appraise and caress our mashed together twin cocks, together we speed up, together we tremble and shake and shoot our sperm.

Then I”m in his arms, and he”s in mine. Standing still, feeling stickiness, feeling cocks shrink, feeling love that hopefully isn”t lost after all.

I can”t help myself. I sigh and I weep quietly, hoping he doesn”t notice.



Somewhere I read some tripe about a home is not a house, it”s a person. Just the kind of cliché that used to make me puke, stuff you find embroidered on the walls of aunts or on gift mugs you put away at the back of your cupboard and want to forget about. My only fridge magnet has a photo of Oscar Wilde, just that, no so-called inspirational quote on it.

Today, however, this sentence swims around in my brain and feels utterly true and appropriate. Peculiar. Am I getting soft in the head? Maybe they were right all along, those old puritans, and it was my brain that shot out of kadıköy travesti my cock last night.

I sit staring out of the window. It”s still dark outside. My living room windows face west, and though I know that sunrise is imminent, I see no trace of it from where I sit, peacefully contemplating homes, houses and persons.

I looked in on them on my way to the bathroom. Samuel flat on his back, one arm above his head, little Oliver curled up beside him, nose nuzzled in his father”s armpit. My boys. My home? Oh, come on!

– – – – –

I”m busy setting the table when a naked little boy comes rushing in and glues himself to my leg. A broad grin meets me when I look down. Infectious grin. I smile back.


Giggling, he lets go and dances off. In and out of the kitchen, round and round. Then stops, shifts his weight from foot to foot, his little head gyrates in a figure eight.

“Do you know Chrithmuth?”

“I sure do. Why do you ask?”

He stands stock still for two seconds. Then skips over and climbs up on the chair that has become his, sits on his knees and leans forward, elbows on the table.

“Dad thayth he doethn”t know where we can have Chrithmuth. I thought maybe you didn”t know that it”th going to be Chrithmuth.”

My heart is suddenly pierced. How hard can it be for Samuel to get into his head that they”re welcome here? More than welcome!

I lean across the table and tweak Oliver”s small nose.

“Would you like to have Christmas here with me?”

He nods vigorously. But then looks a bit worried.

“Dad too?”

“Of course! Wouldn”t be Christmas without your dad, would it?”

He leans his head back and closes his eyes.

“With a tree … and … and loth of glitter … and prethenth and prethenth and prethenth?”

I stretch out and ruffle his hair. I know that”s condescending, but I can”t help myself. He doesn”t seem to mind.

“And Barney can be Thanta!”

Barney? A neighbour? Friend?

“That sounds like Christmas to me.”

Oliver climbs up on the table, crawls on all fours between the plates until he”s close to me, kisses my cheeks and then one last loud smack on my lips. I lift him off, he clings to my neck. I lower him to the floor. As his body slides down my body, his soft, warm skin feels indescribably pleasant.

He skips off, probably to wake up his father and tell him there is going to be Christmas after all.

– – – – –

Samuel has been giving me oblique glances all morning, but not said a word. It”s grating on my nerves. Head-on tackle seems required.

“Tell me what”s eating you, because your mood is putting me out.”

He looks annoyed. Like it”s my fault he behaves like a sulking toddler. He remains quiet, though.

“Let me guess. You”re pissed at me because you think I”m still trying to run your life. Now get this: I”m not in the least interested in interfering with your scheme or your program or whatever, but honestly, you don”t seem to have one. So, forgive me for caring enough for you to want to help you get back on your feet.”

My voice probably sounds a bit harsh. Little Oliver sort of shrinks and looks very uncomfortable. Runs off into the living room. Samuel suddenly looks helpless. I see moisture gathering in his eyes, and there”s misery in his voice.

“That”s not it! Not at all!”

“Then put me right.”

But he bows down and hides his face in his arms, and I see from his shoulders he is crying.

And now he sniffles and snorts and lifts his wet face.

“I was trying to be so cynical about it. Like not get involved emotionally or anything. I figured I was … I don”t know, entitled to come here and sponge on you for a day or two, like you owed me or something. And now I feel awful for thinking like that.”

He wipes his face with the back of his hand.

“And the worst part of is that I don”t want to leave. I panic when I think that tomorrow I”ll have to start looking for a place for me and Ollie. Because I want to be with you, but I had no idea I would, and I wasn”t at all prepared for that. And now I don”t know what to do.”

He flops down again, head in arms.

I am profoundly touched by what he says and by the sorry figure he now represents, touched to the point of distress. My inside aches to step in and try to fix everything for him, but how can I? The last time I wanted to do that, he disappeared from my life.

But at some point this former experience ought to be laid dead, oughtn”t to be allowed to cast these long shadows. How do I tell him? How do I convince him?

“Where”s all the rest of your stuff?”

He lifts his head.

“In storage. Place in the country, a barn where they rent out storage space. It”s just our personal stuff. I sold the furniture with the house.”

“Let”s go get it.”

He looks searchingly at me. Trying to figure out what I”m saying behind the words. And, I guess, trying not to put too much of his own wishful thinking into it.

“But it”s a four-hour drive!”

“Well, it doesn”t get any shorter if we wait, does it?”

Again that penetrating look.

“Are you really saying what I think you”re saying? Because you know what an asshole I can be.”

I shrug. I smile. He doesn”t.

“We can be assholes together, then. On one condition, though. That you put the toilet roll the right way in the holder.”

Now he smiles.

– – – – –

It”s dark when we get back, and past Oliver”s bedtime. However, he has been sleeping in the backseat clutching his huge teddy Barney, the joy of reunion loud and unrestrained and hilarious. Wide awake now, he”s put his stuffed companion to sit next to Mr Willy Corona to watch while he himself makes snow angels in the new soft layer of snow that had fallen while we were on the road.

Samuel and I carry cardboard boxes and black binbags into the house and stuff them into the spare room, a room already half full of junk that should have been sorted and brought to the recycling plant ages ago. What doesn”t go in there, we put in Samuel”s old room.

Last batch inside, and I”m ready to take the rented cargo trailer back to the gas station when Oliver pulls me aside, out of his father”s hearing. Whispers in my ear behind a theatrical little hand.

“Did you thee I made angelth?”

I whisper back.

“Yes. Are they secret angels?”

He grabs my hand. Drags me outside. On the steps he points at the large disorderly circle of snow angels all around the snowman.


“Yes. Pretty!”

“That”th not the point!”

He starts counting on his fingers.

“I look out for Barney Bear. And Dad lookth out for me. And you look out for Dad. Tho I made angelth to look out for you, becauthe that”th what they thay in Kidder Garden, that angelth look out for people.”

He beams up at me, very proud of this brilliant idea. God, I almost die from cuteness overload. I lift him up and cover his cheeks with little kisses.

“Thank you.”

He titters and squirms and fights his way out of my arms. Quick as a flash he”s indoors again. My heart is so full it hurts as I walk to the car.

– – – – –

The best thing about clothes is that it feels so exquisitely wonderful when you get out of them. We share this feeling, my little household and I, we sigh and stretch and spread our limbs, like birds shaking out their feathers. We glance at each other and smile.

Little Oliver yanks Samuel”s hand and pulls him towards the chaise longue. His meaning is obvious. Samuel resists.

“I think it”s bedtime for you, young man.”

“No! Not yet! Thith firtht!”

“Don”t argue! Now that Barney is here and everything, wouldn”t it be nice to sleep with him again?”

“You come too!”

I suddenly remember.

“Samuel, your bed is full of stuff. Why don”t you take my bed?”

The instant I say this, a vivid image plants itself in my brain. An uncomfortably explicit image that I can”t defend myself from, and my ears burn.

My blush is not lost on Samuel. He grins.

“And you? Going to sleep here on the psychiatrist”s couch?”

Am I? My mouth is dry, and my legs feel like they”re weighted down and stuck to the floor. I desperately try to empty my brain.

Little Oliver is dragging his huge teddy along with him, impatiently heading for the bedrooms. Samuel keeps grinning as he follows. Nods to me.

“Come on, slacker! Your bed is big enough for all three of us.”

Oliver stops, looks from one to the other.

“And Barney!” he insists.

Blood makes noise in my ears. The mildly erotic attraction that has been brewing since they showed up has suddenly become a wildfire. Breath-taking. Consuming. Dangerous.

My voice sounds like it comes from somewhere else.

“I don”t think that”s a good idea.”

Samuel turns and comes back to me. Leans in and mumbles in my ear.

“I want you in bed with me. With us. Even if I”m not sure I”ll be able to restrain myself.”

I”m in a losing game. I know it. And the lamest of excuses escapes my treacherous lips.

“Samuel, you”re straight!”

He looks at me as if I”m retarded.

“And …?”

A small whiny voice punctures the tension.

“Are you coming or what? Why are you grown-upth tho thlow?”

– – – – –

In bed, little Oliver turns the wrong way around and puts his small feet between our heads. Thrashes about a bit, hugs his teddy and giggles.

“Kith my toeth!”

He doesn”t have to ask twice. And then I see it: His fourth and fifth toe on each foot are webbed. Fused together into one, but with two tiny nails. Funny, I haven”t noticed this before. I kiss the foot that”s in my face anyway and munch my way to his toes.

Samuel is noisily attacking the other foot.

“I”m going to eat `em! Eat your lucky toes before anyone else comes and eats them!”

Oliver squeals happily. I nudge Samuel, point my finger, my eyes ask the question. He doesn”t mind that Oliver listens.

“Those toes, yes. That”s just the way it is. I love them, because they”re one of the reasons why he”s mine. All mine. No shared custody. That bitch couldn”t abide them. Called him a misfit. To his face, even.”

“I thought they operated things like that right away.”

“Oh, they can still do that if it impedes him in any way. It doesn”t, though.”

Oliver abruptly heaves himself around. His little face is right next to mine, I can feel his breath against my lips.

“She thaid my toeth are dith-guth-ting! That”th not nithe, ith it?”

I kiss his cheek.

“Not nice at all. Because nothing with you is disgusting. You”re just delicious and yummy and perfect, and I”m going to eat you, too.”

I nibble at his ear. He giggles and wriggles away.

– – – – –

My bed is big, but it”s getting quite crowded with three humans and a bear in it. Samuel puts the teddy on the nightstand and tells it to sit still. Pulls the sheet up to our chins, shifts his body into a comfortable position and sighs goodnight.

Soft light seeps into the room from the open door to the hallway. I turn to lie on my side, watching them, wondering if sleep is possible. My whole being is keyed up, my muscles feel tense and tight, my guts feel full of very busy ants. I”m waiting for something. Hoping for something.


Little Oliver moves closer to his father with a small, determined moan, like a kitten wanting to be fed. Samuel rolls over onto his back, the sheets rustle as the boy slithers and slides until he”s on top of him.

I realize I”ve been holding my breath. A rush of expectation, or yearning, or excitement ripples through me. I don”t quite understand why, I”ve already seen Oliver strive to get that feeling he so craves, there”s no reason why I should tremble with anticipation. But I do.

I can”t stop my hands from gently pulling the sheets down. I need to see. Samuel is very aware of what I”m doing, in the half-light I see him staring at me, mouth half open. I hear his breath, regular and deep.

Sheets are off. Little Oliver lies still on his father”s chest and stomach, hands holding on to his father”s upper arms, legs spread to hug his father”s hips. And then the movements start. Almost unnoticeable at first, then gently increasing. His little butt is mesmerizing. No, his whole body is enthralling, hypnotizing. The way his little hands now grip tight, the way his legs clamp around Samuel”s hips, the way his buttocks tighten with each lift and push.

Strange. Each little thrust ought to push him forward, upwards, but the opposite happens. For each small hump he glides lower, like in search of something. Looks like he found it, too, for now he starts to hump like the little rabbit he is, hard against the solidity of pubic bone under him, and his breathing turns to panting.

My mouth is dry. My cock throbs. I really want to wank myself silly, but I dare not move, there”s no way I”m going to disturb this incredible scene that plays out before me.

Goosebumps rush over my skin when little Oliver suddenly holds his breath, goes all stiff and still. It”s like a small wind gushes out of him and I hear him sigh the word Chrithmuth. And then his breathing says sleep.

Like a flash Samuel lifts him off. Throws himself on top of me, mashing his rock-hard cock against mine. Leaning on his hands, chest lifted, doesn”t touch mine. It”s all groin, all cock. Urgently, frantically rubbing and frotting. It”s too much, I”m already close to the edge and can”t hold back. I bite my lip to stop myself from crying out loud, and I explode in an orgasm so intense it”s terrifying.

Samuel keeps on humping, even after he too has come. I”m exhausted. I feel deaf and blind. But a voice whispers in my ear.

“Jeez, Dad. The feeling!”



Getting the boys organized has taken most of the day. Right now, I”m puffed out, running on empty. In between rearranging and replacing furniture and more or less supervising the unpacking, I”ve managed to put in a couple of hours of work and a meeting on Teams that proved impossible to postpone, but futile as far as outcome goes.

The most tiring thing has been Samuels constant indecisions, his recurring doubts that this venture is at all feasible. Again and again, I”ve had to hammer into his head that I want this, that I love having them here. And mostly that this house is not a fucking prison, he can leave anytime he likes if living here again should turn out a bad idea.

Samuel is still thoughtful where he sits sipping his tea, liberally laced with rum. He is steadily looking around him, as if to get used to the surroundings, or maybe it”s to make friends again with the memories tied to this place.

Little Oliver has half hidden himself behind the antique Morris chair in the corner, talking to Barney the Bear on his blue plastic pretend phone, telling him what he wants for Christmas. So at least he”s all right. If only I could make Samuel feel equally relaxed about everything.

He gets up, comes over to where I sit. Plants himself on the floor, his back to me, and wriggles himself in between my knees. His hands grip my ankles. Hard. There”s incredulity in his voice.

“This is happening. This is really happening.”

I touch his hair.

“Yes. Will you please stop worrying?”

He shakes his head. Then leans further back.

“Stroke my hair. Play with my hair like you used to.”

I do. He breathes slowly in, then out with a soft moan.

“You know, I”ve been trying to figure myself out.”

He stops. Like he”s waiting for me to cue him further. I don”t, I just continue to twirl and ruffle his hair.

“Do you ever …” he starts, then holds back.

A long silence. Just deep breathing.

“Do you ever find it hard to … I don”t know, understand … or maybe bridge the gap between who you are and who you want to be? Or are you so secure in yourself that there is no breach? No divergence?”

“I”m not sure I quite understand what you mean.”

He swivels his head against my hand.

“That means you don”t have this … this difficulty. I”ve been thinking, you know. About Adil. About Lisa. About you, of course. I mean, yesterday you threw in my face that I am straight. I thought so myself. I mean, at least I wanted to think so. I”ve been with all kinds of people, you know. When I was in highschool, I fingered some pussy, and I wanked some cock, I never thought I had to decide, you know. Choose one or the other. Until I felt society expected me to.”

His grip on my ankles relaxes. His hands slide over my feet. Lightly, tenderly.

“But no matter what I did, there was always like something was missing, like it was not enough. Like I ought to have everything at once. In one package, sort of. Or that was what it seemed like, but I know now what was missing.”

He steals away from my knees, rises and stands in front of me.

“It”s like this: Why couldn”t I care less when Adil left? Why was it so important to hide my body from you when I felt so ugly? Why did I mind so much your … coldness when I knocked up Lisa? Why did I will myself to think that life with one woman would be just the right thing for me, even though I knew it would never be enough? Why did I need so badly to get away from you?”

He spins like a dancer and spreads his hands out, making a point.


I”m uncomfortable. I”m not sure I feel good about where I suspect he”s going with this, but it”s obviously important and probably has to do with his present ambivalence. And suddenly I”m struck by all the half-joking hints and utterings he”s poured out the last days. And his spontaneous horny advances that somehow seemed sort of shallow, never more than urgent needs. Or even provocations. But jealousy?

I guess he can see I”m bewildered.

“I was jealous of Adil, I was jealous of the few guys you dated after him … you thought you kept them a secret, huh? … I had no clear thoughts about it, but I must have known somewhere inside me that you were not all mine, that I could never really have you, or something like that. And I had to break free in one way or another, even if I didn”t understand why at the time. I was so … happy when I discovered … you know, women.”

Little Oliver, tired of his phone call and drawn by his father”s monologue, comes over and crawls up on my lap, watching his father expectantly, although I don”t think he has a clue about the meaning of what he hears. But then, I tend to underestimate children. They”re quite often more acute than you think.

Samuel strokes his neck up and down a few times, as you do when you don”t really know how to go on. Shifts from one foot to the other, then scratches his pubes.

“Like I said, I just don”t know what to do. I feel I should rearrange bakırköy travesti everything inside me, but I don”t know how. There”s just too much ballast in a way. Too much deadweight.”

Oliver rocks from side to side, fingers in his ears.


A strained laugh escapes me. Oliver jumps impatiently up and down on my lap; he is not finished.

“Tell him! Jutht tell him! What you told me, thilly!”

Samuel suddenly looks sheepish. Sighs.

“Okay. Thing is … thing is I still love you. I”ve tried not to, but I do. I love you.”

Little Oliver raises his arms triumphantly in the air.


Samuel now looks more lost than ever. His voice is no more than a hoarse murmur.

“Like way too much. Like in an impossible way. I thought I”d gone clear, but I haven”t. I”ve tried to be flippant about it, you know, pretend it”s all fun and games. But you do see, don”t you? I”m afraid it”s going to be hell living here, wanting stuff all the time, wanting it more than I ever wanted any pussy. Wanting you.”

I lift Oliver off my lap.

“Listen, little man. Go find something to play with. It”s lap-time for your dad now.”

He starts off, then turns and comes back, waves me in closer to his level. I bow down, he whispers in my ear.

“Maybe he wanth a feeling”

He straightens his little back, looks at me almost knowingly, nods several times and skips away. Cute and funny. Christ, he”s killing me.

Samuel just stands there, frowning, biting his lip, like he”s said too much. I open my arms, palms up. Half invitation, half surrender. And suddenly he”s astride my lap, and I close my arms around him. Feel how tense he is.

“You”re my boy. Don”t you ever doubt that I love you.”

He lays his head on my shoulder. He still feels like a steel spring.

“I know you do. It”s just … I want too much. I want everything. Everything you didn”t give when I was a kid, everything I had to go elsewhere for … but never really found. Don”t you see how hard it”s going to be?”

He suddenly laughs. Quite a bitter, little laugh.

“Yeah, yeah, I know. I wasn”t intending it to be a pun.”

I lift his head, want him to look me in the eyes.

“Samuel. My precious Samuel. You are anticipating trouble where there is none.”

Feels like he tries to see into the depths of my soul,


“You think my love for you comes with a bagful of rules and limits? Maybe it did back then, but now … It doesn”t.”

– – – – –

It”s so quiet. I”ve not drawn the curtains, the faint yellow light from the streetlamps makes my winter-pale skin look almost golden where I lay on top of the sheets. I squint as I look down on myself, and it”s like age flees from my body, every little sign of wear softened and erased. In this make-believe state I”m 25 again, waiting for my lover to come home, and next to me on my bed is the tiny, fragile, diapered boy I brought home from the maternity ward some weeks ago.

How time flies. How ruthless and inconsiderate and above all fast-moving life is.

I”m alone now. The defenceless little creature I once had in my bed is in the next room, putting his own little boy to sleep, and I wonder: Is he filled with the same overwhelming jumble of feelings that I was? The exhilaration and the anxiety, the pride and the panic? The hesitant hopes? The wretched worries? He must be. It”s a universal thing, isn”t it?

My boy. My boys. My home …



I had quite forgotten how hard it is to change a five-year-old”s mind once it”s made up. Objective arguments get you nowhere. Low ceilings do not count when the tallest tree of the whole lot is the one those young eyes are set upon. Eventually the promise of a big, vulgar luminous Santa to put on the front steps and an ugly Christmas sweater for Barney the Bear got him persuaded to settle for a smaller tree.

Samuel and I keep our clothes on as we set the tree up. I don”t want those prickly needles to scratch my skin when we string the lights up and hang the ornaments. Little Oliver on the other hand doesn”t wait. The minute we”re indoors he starts to get rid of his layers of winter clothes. Giggling, he hangs his rainbow socks and his small red briefs on the lower branches, then trots off to dress Barney for the holidays.

Seeing the garments there puts a maybe weird, but to me absolutely on the button, thought in my head. I lift off the little red underpants and put them where they should be: The top. No star, no angel this year. What could be more appropriate in this house than a pair of glorious little red nickers topping the tree?

Stretching up to fasten the end of the string of lights, I suddenly feel Samuel pressing his groin to my jeans-clad butt. Laughing.

“One of these days, Finn, I”m going to fuck the daylights out of you.”

A hard nudge with my ass pushes him away.

“That”s never going to happen. Contrary to the popular myth, not all gay men appreciate being ravaged like that.”

His laugh is carefree and joyous. It sends tiny waves of happiness through me. Has he finally come to terms with all his clashing feelings? God, I hope so.

Tree”s finished. Samuel and I get undressed now, and it feels as liberating and as pleasant as always. Gathering Oliver”s scattered garments and our own, we take them to the bedrooms.

Samuel studies me.

“Your balls need a shave.”

– – – – –

Samuel thinks we should help each other manscaping our crotches. Says it”s too difficult to get his perineum and anus free of hair without cutting himself. In principle, I agree, but when it comes down to it, I have serious misgivings. The project suddenly seems much too intimate, much too personal. Much more so than wanking or frotting ourselves to climax.

So I”m not at all comfortable on my elbows and knees on the bathroom floor, feeling Samuel carefully scrape the foam off my most private area. My embarrassment tops itself when little Oliver suddenly is in the room.

“What are you doing?”

Words are stuck in my throat. Samuel sounds not the least put out.

“Getting your granddad smooth and ready for Christmas.”

Oliver”s little voice gets querulous and whiny.

“He”th not granddad! He”th FINN!”

Samuel says nothing, finishes the job and puts the razor away. Feels over the area with his fingers.

“Okay. Now do me!”

There”s no backing off. I know that. I swallow my qualms. We change positions. I put a small amount of shaving foam over his taint and wrinkled hole, trying desperately to think of this as an ordinary occurrence, not the devastatingly arousing feat my brain has decided it is. I turn to Oliver.

“Should you be here?”


Samuel mumbles.

“Oh, let him watch if he wants to.”

I rinse the razor and get on with it. My hand trembles, I must be very careful not to cause an accident. And soon this very special zone of his body is as smooth as silk, and I have to restrain myself not to bury my face in between his ass-cheeks and learn about everything that”s there with my tongue.

“And me!”

No surprise, really. Little Oliver is down beside his father, little butt in the air.

Samuel sniggers.

“Which one of us do you want to do it?”

“You! No, Finn! No, both of you!”

“All right. Get up and bend over, it”ll be easier that way.”

And little Oliver gets up on his feet, bends down and exposes his tiny little hole. Watches upside down from between his knees. Samuel puts a bit of foam on him. I remove the cartridge from the razor and scrape it off. Oliver titters like mad.

“It tickleth!”

Samuel gives his butt a small smack. But I just can”t stop myself, I lean in and give his tight little opening a kiss.

It”s just a small, innocent kiss. No, it isn”t! Not to me! The connotations are suddenly overwhelming. Waves of goosebumps rush over my body, I”ve crossed a line, I”ve done something unthinkable. Full of regrets, I shiver.



A family Christmas. Doing all the things I believe families do: The house cleaning, the decorating, the gingerbread, the secret wrapping of presents. I haven”t had this for years.

I spent the first Christmas after Samuel left with my mother at my brother”s house, but my jealousy of their happy family act, and their unspoken but obvious pity for me grated on everyone”s nerves. I resented their condescending Oh-we-knew-gay-people-would-never-be-able-to-create-a-proper-family attitude and swore never to repeat a celebration like that.

The last five years I”ve been alone doing nothing at all about Christmas, except putting on a silly Santa hat and skyping my mother, who got fed up with the winters and moved to Spain, assuring her I was fine and happy and content and all that bullshit.

This year we”ll skype her together. This year her screen will show three Santa hats, three naked shoulders, two big and one small in the middle, because I”ll fucking refuse to put on clothes for her sake, and one teddy bear in an incongruous sweater. I hope happiness is what she sees. I hope her narrow mind will recognize that gay people are able to create happy families. I hope she will learn something from seeing that broken bonds can be repaired, and old wounds can be healed.

– – – – –

I”ve given up my silly notion that Christmas trees should not be lit until the big day. Now we”ve turned off all the other lamps, and with the myriads of little lights and reflecting ornaments, the tree sparkles and twinkles and dominates the room completely, days ahead of schedule. Much to little Oliver”s enthusiastic delight.

I”ve brought out the old fluffy shepherd”s rug from its hiding place in the spare room, and the three of us lie side by side on our bellies, gazing at the tree, two of us listening to a muted little voice endlessly enumerating all things Chrithmuth.

Eventually the catalogue seems completed. The small body shoots up.

“Barney wanth to thee the tree!”

And off he scuttles to fetch the abandoned bear from the bedroom. I reach out and gently caress Samuel”s butt. He flexes his seat muscles a couple of times, as if to tell me his buttocks welcome my hand.

Coming back, little Oliver puts his stuffed friend, now with a string of tinsel wrapped around his neck, to sit on the floor beside the rug. Tells him to thit thtill and shut up and comes over to us and crawls up on my back. And as I continue to stroke Samuel”s alternatingly soft and hard butt cheeks, Oliver lies down on me. His breath tickles the back of my neck, his hands find their way around and under me, inadvertently touching my nipples.

The small weight of him, the feel of his body, the touch of his hands, and the growing assumption that he will probably soon want his feeling, sends mixed signals to my brain. Part of me is almost frightened, the other part wants to wallow in it and enjoy it to the hilt.

I squeeze Samuel”s buttocks harder. And I feel light movements against my lower spine, movements going from cautious to decisive, and a now stiff little spike pushes against my skin, as if trying to puncture it. Something tells me I shouldn”t be part of this, but I dare not move.

My disobedient cock is also stiff as a board and pressed the wrong way between my legs. I fight the urge to lift my hips to get it more comfortably up against my belly. And oh shit, something suddenly tickles my balls, fingers close around them, fingers glide along my painful cock, and how on earth can I not respond and keep still?

I can”t. I grind my hips in time with the boy”s rhythm. A finger circles my asshole, tickles and gently prods. My own finger does the same, burrows into the valley of flesh to seek and find silky-smooth, wrinkled and tightly shut opening. I shiver and muster all my restraint, for I”m suddenly achingly aware that I want my finger in there, want to feel the soft and velvety lining of my son”s inside. And suddenly my head is full of images of me putting my cock in Samuel with little Oliver still dry humping my back, and it doesn”t stop there …

The humping on my back ceases abruptly, the little spike is pressed even harder against my spine, the little body is stiff and motionless. Then the grip around my chest relaxes, the small body goes slack. It”s over.

The regular breathing indicates the burden on my back has downright fallen asleep. I feel relief. And I feel shame. Shame that my arousal and excitement threatened to take over. Shame that my control is so weak. And panic, because my reaction to being part of Oliver”s little game, truly feeling it on my skin, was so much more devastating and dangerous that just watching him. I turn my face to look at Samuel. I whisper.

“You shouldn”t have touched me like that.”

He grins a bit sheepishly.

“Sorry. But you looked so irresistible, you know. With your cock growing so big downwards between your legs. Besides, you”re the one who started the touching.”

I want to sigh heavily, my chest feels constipated, but I choke the feeling. I will not move, I do not want the little boy to wake up. Because I love the now more uncomplicated feeling of his body asleep against mine. Nothing dangerous, nothing but the lovely, innocent warmth of a body. Yet I feel I have a confession to make. To rid myself of something that nags inside me.

“I feel bad about myself. You”ve no idea what kind of debauched thoughts ran around in my head. Made me feel wicked, immoral. Rotten.”

“Same as me, the first time I experienced it. You”ll learn to enjoy it in time. Without the side effects … well, more or less.”

Little Oliver stirs on my back. Mumbles something in his sleep. Samuel lifts him off me, and with the boy in his arms vanishes into the dark hallway.

I”m left alone with two problems: A cock as hard as stone and thoughts that no right-minded man should have. And I don”t mean lusting for my son, I can live with that. We”re both old enough to decide for ourselves how far we”re going with that, I”m past being hung up on society”s narrowminded notions of what fathers and sons should get up to together. No, what I can”t come to terms with is the way a blameless and innocent little boy so uncontrollably enhances my horniness and puts sick ideas in my head.

And now I”m the one questioning the wisdom of having the two of them live here with me.

– – – – –


Back from hopefully the last shopping nightmare before the holidays, I dump the bags on the kitchen counter. Exhausted and irritable, all I want is to get out of these irksome clothes, relax a bit and rid my soul of the intrusive commercial Christmas overload of the mall.

In my good chair removing my trousers, I spot Little Oliver in the corner behind the Morris char. His teddy lies on its belly across his legs, sweater rolled up. Oliver holds a ballpoint pen in the air above the bear.

“Hello! What”s with Barney?”

Oliver looks up.

“Thtomach ache. He needth a jackthon.”

A Jackson? What, Michael? or Glenda? Oliver jabs the pen into the teddy”s flat, furry bottom and clicks it two times.

“Oh! An injection!”

“”Th what I thaid. Becauthe elthe he can”t eat Chrithmuth dinner!”

I continue stripping, Doctor Oliver repeats the treatment.

“Where”s your dad?”

He puts the pen away. Gets up and comes over. Points to the closed door leading to the bedrooms.

“Top thecret thtuff.”

He comes all the way in between my legs. Whispers through the funnel his hands make in front of his mouth.

“I think it”th prethenth!”

He nods slowly, like a wise, old man. He”s so cute he ought to be outlawed.

– – – – –

Samuel is not in their bedroom, but in mine. Wrapping a big box of Lego on my bed, tongue out of the corner of his mouth in concentration. Two more presents sit ready and colourful on the floor. He starts when hears the door. Puffs when he sees it”s me. Grins.

“Shit. I thought it was Ollie. I told him I was on a secret mission.”

“He”s busy curing Barney of stomach-ache.”

I put my discarded clothes away, then sit down at the bottom of the bed. Samuel frowns at me.

“You sound out of sorts. What”s the matter?”

I snort.

“Christmas is the matter. The whole town”s fucking crazy. I hate all the hassle.”

He finishes with the paper, holds a long, golden ribbon up for inspection.

“Think this is long enough? By the way, are you feeling better about yesterday now?”

Why does he ask that now? He knows I”m piqued from my shopping and want to be left alone for a moment.

He”s not going to let that happen, though.

“Please? I asked you a question!”

“I don”t know!”

My voice sounds terribly annoyed. I really need to get my shit together. It”s not Samuel”s fault that I”m so fucking grumpy. He deserves a real answer.

“Perhaps. All I know is that I don”t want it to happen again. Not like that. I won”t have him involved in any sort of sex-play between us. I”m okay with his little game, but it should be on his level only. Know what I mean?”

He sits down beside me.

“I agree. That was my principle from the start.”

Suddenly his arm is around my shoulder and his lips nibble at my earlobe.

“But you were so … yummy. I wanted you so much. I still do, I”ve not really finished what we started. In my head, I mean.”

His tongue is in my ear. I shudder and pull my head away.

He rises, puts the finishes to the wrapped box. Hands on hips, he arches his back, presents his lovely, flat stomach in a slightly convex curve. For no reason at all my eyes run full. I turn away before he sees it.

– – – – –

Curtains are drawn, the lamps are out. It”s pitch black in here. I am alone, supine on my bed. I want the darkness, I don”t want anything to disturb the images in my head. Images of Samuel. Dear Samuel. So well-known, so familiar, and yet so … so new.

He came to my room after little Oliver had fallen asleep. Stood by my bed in all his naked glory. Hopeful, expectant, waiting for the green light. Like the flippant games had come to an end, and the irresponsible fun was now over. Now was the time for our souls and our bodies to be honest. He met no resistance. I was ready for him.

It was all so tender, so considerate, so velvety. Yes, his cock was in my mouth and mine was in his, but that was more or less a matter of course. Unavoidable, so to speak. The important factor, what did it for me, was the closeness. His skin on my skin, his warmth, his smell, his breath and his sighs. Holding him for what seemed like hours, feeling all the love I”ve had for him up through the years rise in me, fill me, come to its culmination. I surrendered to him, thoroughly and completely.

My pillow still smells of him. My anguish and my forebodings are gone, along with the remnants of my learned bourgeois objections to love him fully and boundlessly.

I”m his, body and soul. And he is mine. My Samuel. My wonderful boy.



Merry Christmas!

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