3. Virex
I’m not usually this reckless. I prefer to chat for a few days to make sure we’re on the same page, but tonight I’m just looking for release and a body to warm my bed for an hour or two.
When I get home, I shower, change, make sure my home looks okay, and await my guest. By this point, I’ve done this enough times that the nerves are almost nonexistent.
My apartment is new, but the process is not.
I moved back to Portland a month ago, and the spacious one-bedroom apartment I’m renting doesn’t feel like home quite yet.
Granted, nothing really does. It’s been six years since I called a place home.
I comb my hair back in the bathroom mirror and give my beard a once-over, trying to soften my expression into something less intimidating.
Most guys do a double-take when I meet them at the door because of my appearance, and I don’t blame them.
I’ve always been big, and the years have added a few pounds to my already hefty build.
On the apps, I stick out in a sea of washboard abs and smooth bodies with my furry chest and soft belly.
The guys who end up messaging me seem to be into it, though.
My profile pic is doing a decent job, I suppose, at least in terms of looks.
I removed the “Daddy looking for a boy” from my profile, mostly because the boys I ended up meeting didn’t want what I was offering anyway.
They just strutted into my apartment and kneeled on my bed with their asses up, already prepped and ready, and told me to hurry up when I tried to make them comfortable with the tiniest amount of foreplay. Most of them didn’t even want to kiss.
Real connection is hard to come by, and I gave up years ago on finding it. I’ve just had to accept it’s not in the cards for me. At my age, the years seem to fly by. I blink, and another month has passed. Another six months. Another year.
It’s been a long, long time since I last felt truly alive and not just like I was going through the motions.
Six years, to be exact. My last relationship crashed and burned, and I’m not eager to repeat my past mistakes.
It’s easier to make do with casual encounters.
Less chance of heartbreak if you never meet anyone more than once.
I can only hope “Virex” is different from the other guys I’ve met on the hookup apps. Most guys block me when I tell them what I’m after. I guess they think it sounds boring to take things slow.
Virex didn’t block me, though. He wasn’t deterred at all. In fact, when I glance at my phone, I see he messaged me an abbreviation of “on my way” a few minutes ago.
Twenty-three is on the young side, and if I weren’t feeling the way I am, I probably wouldn’t have responded to his message at all. For what it’s worth, he seemed less brazen and attention-seeking than other guys his age, though you never really know from a profile and messaging alone.
When he arrives, I’ll invite him inside and offer him a beer.
I know from experience that most guys won’t accept a poured drink from a stranger, which is perfectly fair.
The landscape of quick hookup culture can be dangerous to traverse, and I’m always highly aware of the advantage I have in terms of age and size.
Sex will only happen if we hit it off. Now that I think about it, I might have projected characteristics on “Virex” that might not end up being true.
I don’t want another impatient boy who’ll turn his face away when I lean in to kiss him.
I want to take my time and truly enjoy someone tonight.
Pleasure him to the point he’ll see stars and cry out in my embrace.
It’s rare for that kind of sex to happen between strangers; I know that. But one can hope.
I glance at my smartwatch. I told him to come at seven thirty, and it’s seven forty now. I wouldn’t be surprised if he doesn’t show. You have to be prepared for all sorts of disappointments and wastes of time when going on the apps. I learned that the hard way.
Looks like I’ll spend another night alone. Maybe I’ll order in and vegetate in front of the TV, or maybe I’ll make the roast dinner I planned for this week. Either way, I’ll be alone.
Seven fifty. My hope has truly shriveled up and died when my doorbell rings. The muffled sound jerks me into action, and I clear my throat before I unlock the door and open it.
Outside stands a boy with soaked, sandy-blond hair plastered to his forehead.
“Sorry, I rode my bike here and—” He comes to an abrupt stop, and his mouth falls open at the sight of me.
It takes a few seconds of staring at him and putting together the puzzle pieces in my head before I realize what’s happening.
No.
No way.
It can’t be him. It shouldn’t be him. First of all, the ages don’t add up, and second of all, he—
“Dad?” His shocked expression turns to dread, and my heart clenches at the sight of him.
“Ollie…” All I can do is stand there in shock, ears ringing.
This should never have happened. None of it was deliberate.
Unless… he knew who I was? No… I see in the shock and distress on his face that he didn’t.
He was just trying to hook up with a stranger, same as me, and I never should have seen him like that, never should have thought about him like this. It’s wrong on so many levels.
The last time I saw him, he was a thirteen-year-old kid, crying out “Dad!” as I backed my car out of the garage and left him, his mom, and his brother behind. To this day, it’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done. Oh God. Oliver…
He shakes his head, backing away. Rain drips off his hair, pouring down his face like tears.
“No… No…” He sounds like a wounded animal, confusion and betrayal written all over his face, and my heart clenches painfully.
“Oliver.” Without thinking, I reach out for him. Wrong choice. He stares at me, eyes blown open in his pale face, and spins on his heel.
His wet shoes slap down the stairs in a mad rush. I could follow him, but even if I caught up to him, what would I say? I’m in as much shock as he is, and this wasn’t what either of us planned. Oh Christ, if he thinks I planned this, if he thinks I knew who he was…
The thought makes me sick. I used to consider him my son, for God’s sake. And even though I had no claim to him, he used to call me “Dad.”
A slew of conflicted emotions and horrified thoughts wage war in my mind. Thoughts like “How could this have happened?” and “I should’ve known better,” but none of them bring me any sort of peace. How can I ever know peace after I saw Oliver’s distraught face and heard the betrayal in his voice?
That single gasped-out word echoes in my head for hours.
“Dad?”
There have been times when I’ve wondered if I even deserved to have him call me that. Well, now I certainly have my answer.