I’m not expecting the scene when I pull down my dad’s drive. Twenty men scattered across the backyard and every single one wearing less than what you'd see at a beach. Speedos. Jockstraps. A few just in towels that look ready to slip. My stomach does something complicated.
I was just expecting a normal barbeque.
The first few years, he’d been a typical divorced dad, that is, a complete mess. He couldn't cook anything beyond microwave dinners. His kitchen smelled like stale beer and regret. But then he’d met a group of older gay guys and become friends with them and they'd pulled him out of his funk. He’d told them about his gay son and bonded over that. Now he's standing at the grill, tongs in hand, wearing nothing but a jockstrap that frames his thick ass like a fucking work of art. His back gleams with sweat, shoulders broader than I remember, the muscles in his arms working as he flips burgers.
"Hey, kiddo!" He waves the tongs at me, grinning like this is normal. Like this is just a regular Saturday barbecue.
A guy in a red speedo walks up and slides his hand across Dad's lower back. Dad doesn't flinch. Doesn't move away. Just keeps grilling while this man's palm traces the curve of his spine down toward the waistband of that jockstrap.
Before I can react, some guy is striking up a conversation and I’m struggling not too look at the thick pouch of his thong.
“So, you’re the son. Brian talks about you all the time! It’s so wonderful that you have such a supportive father, you know."
Supportive. Dad's standing in a jockstrap letting some dude pet his ass. That sure is supportive.
I glance back over at the grill. The guy in the speedo is fifty-something with a pelt of silver chest hair and somehow thick, defined abs. He leans in and says something close to Dad's ear. Dad laughs. A real laugh, the kind I didn’t hear in the years before or after Mom left. His whole body shifts with it, and for a second I see the way his ass moves in that strap, the pouch front and center, the curves behind barely contained.
I grab a beer from the cooler and sit on the nearest empty chair. Two men on either side of me immediately introduce themselves. Rick. Douglas. Both in jockstraps, both around Dad’s age. They’re obviously a couple but they’re both looking at me with open interest.
"He's been so much happier," Rick says, nodding toward the grill. "We love having him around."
"Your dad's a legend," Douglas adds. His hand rests on his own thigh, fingers spread, and I can't stop noticing how close that hand is to the pouch of his strap. "We don’t get many straight guys in the group, but it's refreshing to see a man who doesn't give a shit. Just enjoys the vibe."
Straight. Dad told them he's straight. Told me he's straight. Standing there in underwear designed to showcase cock and ass, letting men touch him, laughing with them, hosting them—and he's straight.
I watch him work the grill. Watch the way he bends to check the meat, his ass spreading in that strap, the fabric riding up. Three men nearby stop talking to watch too. One of them adjusts himself through his speedo, slow and obvious.
Dad looks over at me and raises his beer.
Just a cookout. With twenty gay men in their underwear and my father dressed like a porn extra. I drink my beer and try not to think about what I'm actually seeing here.
The burgers disappear fast. I nurse another beer while making small talk with Rick about his job at the community center, Douglas chiming in between sips of his cocktail. Dad flips the last patties, that jockstrap stark against his tanned skin and pale ass, then finally shuts the grill lid. The food is gone within the hour, replaced by coolers dragged out from the garage.
As the sun dips, the yard transforms. String lights flicker on, casting everything in a warm amber glow. The men grow louder, bolder. Someone cranks music from a Bluetooth speaker. Bodies press closer on the patio furniture. Hands linger on shoulders, waists. Douglas's palm finds my thigh twice before I shift away.
I check my phone—nearly ten. The crowd has thinned slightly, maybe fifteen men remaining, but the ones left are the drunk ones. The handsy ones. Rick's arm draped around my shoulders, his breath hot and drunk against my ear as he slurs something about me being "a hot piece of ass just like your old man."
Time to go.
I extract myself from the conversation, scanning the yard for Dad to say goodbye. The grill sits cold and abandoned. His lawn chair is empty. I realize it’s been awhile since I’ve seen him. I circle the patio, checking the garage, the side of the house. Nothing.
The back door stands slightly ajar.
I step inside, the kitchen air cool against my skin after the humid night. The sliding door muffles the party noise to a dull throb. The overhead light is off—just the under-cabinet LEDs casting a low yellow glow across the countertops.
That's when I hear it. A low grunt. Wet, rhythmic slapping.
My feet stop moving.
Dad is bent over the kitchen island, forearms flat against the granite, his back arching in a deep curve. The jockstrap is shoved down around one ankle. Behind him, the man in the red speedo—his speedo now tangled around his thighs—grips Dad's hips with both hands and drives into him with steady, brutal thrusts.
"Take it, Brian," the man growls, fingers digging into Dad's fleshy waist. "Fuck, you're tight tonight—"
Dad's response is a broken moan, his head hanging between his shoulders. Sweat rolls down his spine, catching the golden light. Each thrust shoves him forward against the counter, the granite digging into his stomach, and he pushes back to meet every stroke.
I stand frozen in the doorway. My brain refuses to process the image: my old man, the guy who'd coached my Little League team, face-down and moaning while some stranger pounds his ass in his own kitchen. The wet slap of skin on skin. The slick sound of cock working open a hungry hole.
I couldn’t have asked for a more positive response from my parents when I came out. It was never an issue. But I find myself feeling angry that my dad never mentioned he slept with men. Like, as the gay man in the family, I deserved to know that fact or that it somehow lessened his support for me.
Those feelings are promptly shoved to the back of my mind when a loud groan rips from my father’s throat.
Dad's fingers curl against the countertop. "Shit, shit, shit," he gasped. "You’re gonna wreck my pussy!"
“Fuck yeah, I am. This pussy is mine!” The man hisses in my father’s ear. “Who’s pussy is it?”
“It’s yours! Your fucking pussy!” Dad practically sobs.
“That’s right. Now I’m gonna flood it.” He growls as the sounds of man sex grow louder and wetter.
