It's one of my most formative memories. My parents sent me to bed on a Friday night, as their friends started coming over for a house party. They were louder that night then they normally were. After an hour of trying to fall asleep, I got out of bed, and went downstairs to ask my parents if they could keep it down.
But as I turned the corner to the front room, I saw my dad, sitting comfortably on the living room couch, completely naked. I'd never seen my dad naked, and a part of me felt a little betrayed that he trusted all of these other adults with the view of his body more than he trusted his own family.
Another part of me had to admit that I had some confusing feelings about seeing my father's body on full display.
No one else was naked. I don't know to this day if it was a normal part of their parties for my dad to get naked as some kind of way to blow off some young-dad steam, or if maybe he lost a bet.
Regardless of how he ended up naked in front of all his friends and his very young son, I remember standing in the doorway staring at him, as he made jokes with his friends, his clothes piled up in a corner of the living room.
It was a full moment before anyone realized I was there, and I tried to memorize every contour of my father's body in that time.
"Of fuck," he said, throwing a hand over his exposed dick. "Steve, you're supposed to be in bed."
"Steve?" My mom shouted from the kitchen, her voice panicked.
"I'll take care of it, honey," my dad replied, standing, still covering his cock.
He grabbed me by the shoulder, with one hand while sheepishly covering his penis with his other, even though I had seen it all already.
"Let's get you back in bed," my dad said, his large hand guiding me up the stairs.
I tried not to keep sneaking peaks at my father's naked body, but I wanted to see his muscles, his butt, his penis. I hoped that I would look as good as him when I grew up.
"Sorry we got so loud, sport," my dad said, not making eye contact. "You really weren't supposed to see any of this."
"You look good, naked, Dad," I said, worried that he was ashamed of his body.
"It's not about that," my dad said, a hint of pride in his voice.
He didn't elaborate further, but he let go of his penis and let it flop in front of him as we climbed the stairs, and I knew it was some tacit permission to look, because he'd make sure we were never in this position again, and he understood that a part of me liked looking as much as I understood that a part of him liked to be looked at.
When I was in bed, he stood, silhouetted in the door frame, not covering himself, allowing me a final look.
"I love you, son," my dad said. "And we won't ever talk about this, understood."
"Understood," I said, memorizing the outline of his penis, his body, free from the chains of clothing, and free from the stress of propriety for just a moment.
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