12 Tales of Christmas: A Reason To Come Home
“What do you mean, you’re not coming home?” Dad said down the line. In the background, I could hear PJ saying, “He what?”
What was I supposed to tell them? That I’d rather spend the holiday here on campus, pretty much on my own, because… That the reason I’d moved all the way to the other side of the country to go to school wasn’t for the damn baseball program, but… That it wasn’t that I didn’t love them, or want to see them, I just…
Fuck, man. I knew this was gonna be a problem. I knew as soon as I left the house back in August to head to college, that I couldn’t come back. Not for awhile, anyway. Not ‘til I’d sorted out the shit in my head. You try having two Dads. It’s a lot to deal with. Especially when you think you might have got the gene too. That you’re gay like them.
And then, throw into the mix the fact that your two gay dads are fucking hot, and that your possibly-gay ass has a big definitely-gay bone for them. Your own parents. That since you were a kid, and then even more so once you hit puberty, you’ve been crushing on the men who created you, raised you, gave you an amazing upbringing. I thought it might be a phase, some kind of weird psychological thing about having two fathers. But even now, at 18, my hardon for my fathers was just as intense as ever. Even more so, actually.
Like, when I lost my cherry to Sarah Pollard back when I was 16, the one thing keeping my cock hard was the fantasy highlight reel playing out inside my head. Pictures of me and my dads, naked, doing what I’d rather be doing with them. Yeah, I got off, and hard. She did too, and that was something to be proud of, I guess. But I felt all weird inside afterwards, the same way I did after every single jackoff session. Because for all my hot buddies, my sexy coaches, the studly dudes on Tumblr, the two I kept circling back to were my own fathers.
Maybe what made it worse was that I was literally their son - not adopted or fostered or whatever. Dad and Papa Joe - PJ - had gone to all the trouble and expense of finding a surrogate to carry their sperm. They hadn’t told me in so many words, but I had the idea they’d mixed both theirs up - and fuck, the cum I shot imagining that, jesus - and rolled the genetic dice to see who came out on top. So to speak. I was pretty clearly Dad’s - I had his frame and most of his features, and I was kind of a baseball stud like he’d been in college - but I felt just as connected to PJ, too. Which was part of the problem.
Years and years of hearing them fucking - trying to be quiet, but still, I’d be there outside their closed bedroom door, hand in my undies, beating furiously on my hard young dick as I listened to my fathers make each other cum. And then the cherry on top of that was hearing Dad call PJ “Dad” in bed, and hearing PJ call him “Son” right back, and that’s when I knew everything was fucked and that life with my fathers was going to be a problem for me.
So, I’d decided not to go home for the holidays. Couldn’t deal, right now. Needed space. I still loved them - in the non-pervy way, I mean - and I knew it was gonna be tough for all of us, but I just didn’t think I could handle a couple of weeks back in my boyhood bed, trying not to listen to them fucking, trying not to imagine their hairy, muscular bodies writhing together, their tongues exploring each other, whispering pervy fantasy roleplay talk - fuck. Now I was hard again.
We argued about it, PJ getting on the extension in their bedroom to push their case, but I guess even if I didn’t maybe have his DNA, I sure had his bullheadedness. After a half-hour of going back and forth, I could hear the defeat in Dad’s voice - defeat and sadness, too, which made me feel like the worst person in the world. Definitely the worst son. If they only knew how well that title fit me…
“Your Dad’s pretty hurt, buddy,” PJ said the next day. I’d meant to decline his call, but I’d sucked it up and answered.
“I know, and I’m sorry, I hate it, PJ,” I said lamely. “But I can’t. It’s hard to explain. I just…”
“I think I get it, Scotty,” PJ said. “The reason you don’t want to - can’t come home. To us. Why you wanted to go to school all the way out there, instead of closer to home.”
“I…” I said, then petered out, my throat all dry. PJ was older than Dad, smart as hell, and you could never pull any shit over on him. It’s why he made such a kickass lawyer. He could read just about anybody like a book, and it seemed like he could read me especially well.
“You don’t have to say anything, son,” he said. “I get it. You’re like us, aren’t you, bud? And that scares you, doesn’t it?”
I guess my silence told him the answer. I didn’t have the words.
“Do we scare you, son? Is that it?”
“No,” I said weakly. “Yes. No. It’s not you guys. I love you both. It’s… it’s me. I scare myself. And I dunno how to say it. But like… that’s why I can’t be around you guys right now. For awhile, maybe. Because I’m scared of myself, around you. I feel like… something’s fucked up in my head, PJ. Like I’m not right. Broken, or something. Wrong. And I gotta figure that out, before I can come home again. Do you understand that?”
I was crying now. Trying to keep it quiet, but there I was, curled up on my dorm room bed, tears rolling down my face, my guts in knots. I was a fucking mess.
“I understand, Scotty,” he said, a little catch in his voice too. “We understand. Your Dad will, anyway. Just know that we love you, no matter what, no matter who you are or how you feel. Nothing trumps that, OK buddy?”
“OK, Dad,” I said quietly. I rarely called him Dad - too confusing, with two of them. ‘PJ’ was easier, and he liked it. But I knew he liked being called Dad too.
We talked a little more about general bullshit, and I still didn’t feel great about everything when we hung up, but I knew they didn’t hate me, at least. And they knew I didn’t hate them, either. Now I could focus on… I don’t know, something. Getting better. Maybe go find a counselor to talk to on campus.
And then I got the e-mail from them two days later, and everything changed.
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