It was
the summer of
’62. I was fresh out of high
school and had decided to follow in my father’s footsteps and pursue a
career in engineering. Dad was in his prime and never looked better. Solid
and muscular with dark good looks, he still turned heads everywhere he
went and made me proud to be a chip off his old block. I was crazy about
my old man and knew I’d miss him when I left for college. So we planned
to spend as much of the summer together as we could.
Dad and I had our special games. We didn’t talk about them all that
much, we just played them. Sometimes he instigated the play, sometimes
I did. It was just something we’d been doing for a while, and I think we
were both amazed when it started. But the sehat we were engaging
in acts so forbidden didn’t wrack us with guilt, it just gave us a sense of
childlike excitement. I think it was a natural outgrowth of our love and
special bond. We were having too much fun to judge ourselves.
For instance, Dad had a ritual about shaving. It was a sacred moment
in his day, those few unhurried minutes in front of the mirror. He refused
to be rushed about it, taking his sweet time, drawing the razor slowly and
carefully over his , almost caressingly. He shaved nude and showered
afterwards, because he didn’t like stubble in his underwear. He brought
something sensual to this mundane everyday activity, and I loved to watch
him as far back as I remember. I felt we shared something intensely
intimate during those few minutes every m. Sometimes we shaved
together, standing together at the sink, our sides toug, feeling the cold
porcelain against our balls. But mostly I just liked to watch him, studying
his face as he trated on what he was doing, patiently, methodically,
expertly. Sometimes he would catch my eyes in the mirror and throw me