July 2026, Provincetown
I lost my beloved basement workshop and kiln when I moved and downsized from the Midwest to the Northeast. Lacking a productive hobby—and also lacking cold-weather accessories—I took up knitting. Whether the craft seemed masculine or not didn’t concern me. I just thought it nifty that I could grab a ball or two of yarn, manipulate it between a couple of needles, and come away with a scarf, or a hat, or as I got better, something big and useful like a sweater.
Since after the move I was also looking for new friends and people to meet, I joined Manhattan’s biggest LGBTQ+ knitting group. Once a month we’d meet at The Center, where in one of the upper story rooms we’d sit around a large table with our current projects, amiably chatting and comparing notes while we listened to the New York City Gay Men’s Chorus rehearse across the hall. Within the space of a couple of years, because of my general air of responsibility, the group’s founder promoted me to his co-leader. My duties were few: I’d arrive a little early to set up the room, stay to strike the chairs and tables, keep lists of local yarn shops and beginner’s resources for curious new members. The space wasn’t free, so I’d collect a nominal few bucks from everyone at meeting’s end to pay for the rental.
I was really fond of the group. I made good friends through it. Yearly we’d make a big potluck picnic out of Knit in Public Day, which in the city was held underneath tents at Bryant Park—dozens of knitting groups across the city, socializing with each other. But the group began to diminish sometime after the first Trump administration. The Center raised its room rental prices to a point that it no longer felt feasible to continue there. We moved to a local library branch where the room was free but less comfortable. The group that had been fifteen to twenty regulars when I’d started diminished to about six or seven. Within a year, that six or seven had shrunk even further—people just didn’t think the library was as genial a place to meet. We investigated a merge with the knitting group run by drag domestic goddess Brini Maxwell at Club Cumming, but the members didn’t like a bar atmosphere. So, after a three-month run in the autumn of 2019 in which I was the only group member who showed up to our meetings, the other leader and I decided, with regrets, to bring the group to a close.
To be fair, we would have been forced to do it a few months later, when COVID hit.
Ever since, I’ve regretted losing this group of people who’d been so essential to my integration to the city. I’d make a big afternoon and evening of knitting group days: hitting my favorite stores in the vicinity, sitting in the park with a book beforehand, treating myself to dinner at a nice restaurant, then two hours laughing with my fabric art friends.
Then afterward, oh afterward, I’d collect the room rental money and see everyone off. Once they were gone, I’d exit the Center and walk a couple of blocks to a familiar townhouse. Sitting on the front steps, waiting for me, would be a young Brazilian man with coarse, wavy hair to his shoulders. Bud, his name was. His dark eyes would have seen my tall frame coming from a distance; they’d follow me, unblinking, until I stood before the stoop. “Hey, Son,” I’d say.
“Dad.” Just one word, but his bass voice would be heavy with meaning. “I missed you.”
“No, I missed you,” I’d say. Then he’d rise, plant a gentle kiss on my lips, take me by the hand, and lead me inside.
For nearly a decade, Bud and I shared a standing date after knitting group. Not once did I have to reach out and remind him; I would simply receive a text of Tonight?, every third Monday of the month. Though over the years Bud’s facial hair changed—sometimes clean-shaven, sometimes a scruffy beard—his townhouse studio apartment never did. He lived in a narrow room boasting sixteen foot ceilings. Over his kitchen and bathroom area he’d built a wooden loft where he slept; a sofa and a fan whirring by the window, no matter what the weather, acted as the living room space. Over the years I grew familiar with the home’s comfortable clutter—the clothes bunched on coat hangers and hung from below the loft, the tall stacks of home goods piled high along the room’s walls. I wasn’t visiting for the spotlessness of my host.
I was there because he would lead me into the room, sit me gently upon that worn, leather sofa, then kneel before me. With solicitous care, he’d remove my shoes. “I really mean it. I missed you, dad,” he’d say. His lips would press against mine as he unbuttoned my shirt, or tugged at the button of my jeans. “You can’t leave your boy like that.”
“I came back as soon as I could,” I’d assure him. Naked, erect cock lolling to one side, I’d lean back against the leather and watch him undress, one garment at a time, until his dark-skinned body would stand over me. Then he’d hold out his hand and haul me up. My skin sounded like the unspooling of plastic wrap, as it peeled away from the leather.
I remember the ladder to his loft as a good eight feet high. He’d scamper up like a cat climbing a tree. I hate ladders, so I’d take the journey more slowly. He’d tenderly help me up the last few steps and help swing my legs over to join him on the queen-sized mattress at the summit. I’d always land on my back, huffing with delight when he’d straddle me with his brown, hairy legs. There was just enough space between the loft mattress and the high ceilings for him to sit upright. “Do you love your boy, daddy?” he would ask.
I don’t really know if Bud knew my name. If he did, he never used it. When we were together, I was always his dad, and that was good enough for the both of us. I used his, though, in a soft sigh as I cupped his face. “Oh, Buddy-boy,” I’d say, pulling him down for a kiss. “I could never love anyone as much as I love my son.”
He’d lift his hips when our mouths would meet. I’d feel his hand around my shaft, followed by wet warmth as he would lower himself down on me. “I feel the same way about you, Dad,” he’d whisper, knitting the two of us together in an embrace.
***
It’s Saturday, the first night of my Provincetown vacation. I’m staying in a rental place steps off Commercial Street, tucked down an alleyway that runs between t-shirt shops. Surprisingly, there’s very little noise. Once I’ve closed the door and stepped inside, all the bells fade away from the rushing pedicabs. No longer am I assaulted by the raucous cries of parties hallooing in the street as they make their drunken way from the Governor Bradford. All I really hear is the buzz of the air conditioning and the refrigerator’s gentle hum. I lie on my bed and weigh my options.
I could head down the street to the Boatslip. Try my luck at the Dick Dock. I’ve heard, though, that the timing is bad this week: high tide is hitting right around this time, when the Dick Dock action would just be getting started. I’d heard from a friend that he’d gone down the night before and found a dozen guys standing forlornly on the ramp, waiting for the waters to recede. The entire area was submerged.
And to be honest, I’m not really keen on playing Dick Dock games. Last year I’d visited the infamous cruising spot a couple of times and found the site’s erotic culture to be utterly desecrated. Hermits had stood with their eyes on their phones, lighting up the place, to check out TikTok instead of cruising. Young gay men afraid to visit the Dick Dock on their own showed up accompanied by two or three straight women for protection, purportedly to ‘take a tour,’ but in reality shutting down any action with their giggling approach and loud, scandalized murmurs. More men than usual wouldn’t take no for an answer. Several folk conducted loud phone conversations over speaker. I’d never seen such dispiriting behavior. Compared to the Dick Dock years before the pandemic, the last couple of seasons felt like returning to a grand old cathedral in which one grew up and finding it inhabited by a Dollar Tree.
No, rather than throw myself on the mercy of the greatly diminished cruising gods, I’ve decided this trip to take a more focused approach to my sexual tourism. I flop down on my king-sized bed and fire up an app. In Provincetown, a resort densely populated with gay men, it’s not unusual to find yourself surrounded by thirty profiles less than twenty feet away. Already I’ve gotten a few nibbles of interest. But I’ve scarcely had the app running for a full minute before a new message pops up.
Dad? it says. Are you here in town?!
I recognize the profile picture. Bud.
Immediately, I feel pangs of guilt. I haven’t seen my boy since 2019, in the autumn, when that knitting group finally called it a day. Oh, maybe I’d tried once. I vaguely recall one time before the pandemic when I’d texted him out of the blue to meet. But I’d had to hightail my way from the Village’s far east side to west, and he’d had to cut short his regular swim session to get home to connect with me. Something like that. I remembered we were both off our game that last time we’d seen each other.
He’d contacted me since to lament my absence from time to time. And I’d reached out to him, regretting that I no longer visited his neighborhood. Twenty-five miles usually lies between us. Now, it’s only 416 feet. I’m here, I text. You’re so close.
Please see me! I sit up on the bed, loins stirring. I’m staying on the east end of town. I’m at a party at the Crown and Anchor but can be back at my place in ten minutes.
If he’s down the street at the Crown and Anchor’s Tom of Finland party, I reason, he’ll have to pass by my rental on the way back. I suggest he meets me in ten minutes at a nearby corner, then lunge to my cramped little bathroom for a quick refresh.
Out on the street, surrounded by late-night revelers and the caterwauls of a drag queen from a nearby bar, I fret a little. What if I don’t recognize Bud, after so many years? I needn’t worry. I spy him from a block and a half away, taller than I remember. The long hair is now streaked with gray. Instead of fuzz, he’s cultivated a fashionably thick mustache. Bud was all of twenty-seven or twenty-eight when I first knew him; now he’s in his early forties. For the Tom of Finland party, he has donned a tight pair of leather shorts that highlight a particularly muscular pair of dark-skinned thighs, and a complicated crop top—or maybe it’s a halter?—fastened by long red laces. An expanse of furry belly lies between the two. On his feet are a short pair of zip-up boots. Atop his head perches a traditional leatherman's cap. He removes it to run a hand through his locks as he sees me. “Dad!” he says in a soft voice, delighted.
“Son.”
We step close. Then, out there on the street, beneath the streetlight and in front of everyone, he kisses me softly on the lips.
Everything rushes back as together we walk in the direction of his rental. All those nights perched like nesting birds in heights of his loft bed. The times he hadn’t been able to wait and rode me on his sofa. The warmth of his hand on my skin. The way his accented vowels soften his voice, making every word sound as if murmured for my ears alone. “I can’t believe you’ve made me wait for you so long, Dad” Our hips adjoin as we walk down the street, every step in tandem. We must look like we’re running a three-legged race at an Eagle-sponsored picnic. “How could you do it?”
“I’m so sorry, Son,” I murmur. He squeezes me with affection, in response. “It’s not from lack of wanting you.”
“Are you going to take care of your boy’s hole tonight? Are you going to put that big dick inside me and squirt out a load or two?”
“Oh, fuck,” I groan.
He capitalizes on my helplessness with more dirty talk. “Yeah, my dad is going to give me what I need tonight. I haven’t had a load yet this weekend. I haven’t had your load in years. I’m going to take what’s mine.”
I intend to let him keep that promise.
Constantly, we bump into the other as we stride down the street. Most men out this time of night are strolling toward the party in the center of town. They gauge us as we pass, nodding in acknowledgment, sometimes uttering a short greeting. Some of these strangers only have eyes for Bud in his leather gear, but I get looks as well. It might be because I’ve decided to go commando in my shorts and Bud’s sexy blandishments have created a visible tent. But I catch several appraising eyes of younger men, obviously envying Bud his companion. The realization makes me stand a little taller, and draw back my shoulders. I nod to them in return.
We reach our destination in an area of Commercial populated mostly by little art galleries. Several Cape Cod cottages have been connected into one larger structure; Bud opens a gate and leads me down a brick path through an ivy-strewn garden along its side to a private entrance. One hand rests on my back as he pries open the leather pocket on his backside and painfully fishes out a single key from the tight enclosure. Into a vestibule of closed doors he leads me. The walls are hung with cross stitch and old wooden spoons adorned with gingham bows. To my left, a circular stone staircase spirals down to a pitch black cellar, locked and gated off with an iron fence. It both looks and smells like a cursed hellhole out of Widow’s Bay.
Bud’s room continues the hallway’s theme. Someone’s great-grandma has gone mad in here, adding ruffles to every cushion, bows and gewgaws to every picture frame, doorknob, and decorative jar of shells. A high four-poster bed sits against the far wall, a monument of frills atop flounces atop fandangoes. “Gawrsh,” I say, blinded even in the low light of a single hurricane-style lamp by the clashing red-and-white plaids. I feel as if I’ve fallen into a little girl’s cottagecore fantasy.
He seems to understand my meaning. “It was cheap. And available,” is all he says. When he shoves me into one of the rocking chairs, my feet fly off the floor. He kneels and unties my sneakers. Slips them softly off. Caresses my feet, then removes the socks. “I need you bad, Sir,” he whispers. Forget the fucking decor. The flats of his palms skim up my leg hair. Part my thighs. He pulls at the shoulders of my tee. I raise my arms so that he can undress me. “You made me wait.” I gasp at the pressure of his meaty thumbs on my nipples. When he leans in as if for a kiss, I mirror him. But at the last moment, he pulls away, cocks his head, and declares, “I’m not waiting any more.”
Bud yanks on my hands to raise me upward. My pants fall to the floor at his sharp tug. I’m naked before him. Erect. My cock swings up as if I’m readying a weapon.
“Lie down on the bed,” he commands. Already he’s thrown his Muir cap onto one of the several rocking spindle chairs. He’s fussing with the ties of his halter.
I turn to the bed and discover that the mattress top hits me roughly mid-ribcage. To its side lies a set of wooden steps. Even in this Provincetown rental, I’m still having to climb high to get into Bud’s bed. Underneath the four-poster’s flounced tester, I spread my legs wide and watch as Bud skims out of his halter. When he unbuttons those tight leather shorts and his fat hooded cock springs out, I’m reminded a jack released from his box, or of crescent roll dough bursting from its just-cracked tube.
He’s naked when finally he faces me, expression vulnerable. “Do you remember me now?”
Is he kidding? I don’t doubt his sincerity. But does he honestly think I don’t know who he is, after all those years we met? “Son,” I say with reproach. When I open my arms, he uses one of the bed’s lower horizontal beams to vault himself atop me. The wood protests with a squeal. I hold the younger man’s face with both hands and stare into his eyes. “Bud. I have never forgotten you.”
He blinks to clear his eyes. Nods. Then I feel the full weight of him atop me as we embrace. I’ve missed his deep kisses, the sensation of his facial hair grinding against my own. I’ve missed how his long legs grapple with my own as if we’re trying to pull into the other past the skin, deep to the core. I’ve missed the strength of his arms as he pushes me deeper into the old mattress. We should have been seeing each other these past six years. We should have gone out of our way. Kept in better touch.
No matter. We’re together again, here and now.
Strong fingers wrap around my wrists. He pins my arms above my head, locking them down onto the mattress. I let out a little gasp in which helplessness and excitement interlace. “I remember everything,” he whispers. “I remember Dad likes this.”
Yes. Yes Dad does. Through repeated encounters, without my having to tell him, he’d discovered how urgently I sometimes need to be the passive partner in the encounter. My heart thuds in its cage as he shifts his weight to sit upon my midsection, still holding me down. I make a pretense of struggling a little, just to see if he’ll let me escape.
He doesn’t. A smile flickers across his lips. “You aren’t going anywhere until I get what I want.” My cock rises and thuds against his backside. That little Judas, giving away my pleasure. I haven’t been this excited for a very long time.
You see, new meat is exciting. Getting to see a new cock, to hold it in my hands. Kissing someone for the first time. Exploring new smells, feeling a stranger’s hands on you. I’ve no quarrel with any of that. But getting together with a lover or a friend with benefits, someone you’ve known for months or even years? For me, that blows everything else out of the water. Someone who’s taken the time to learn what I like, to push the buttons I hope they’ll push, who exercises his imagination and timing to make the experience right for me in the same way I try to do for him—that’s what I would prefer over the novelty of an unseen dick, nine times out of ten.
Just a week or two ago I was mourning how all my long-term fuckbuddies had dropped away after the pandemic. In Michigan, I had ongoing relationships with some men for eight, ten, fifteen years. I’d seen Bud nearly a decade. These days, in my neck of the woods, I’ve got nobody regular. Hell, I don’t even have any once-in-a-whilers. So yeah. I miss the excitement of a man like Bud, a handsome fellow who over time has learned my triggers and my limitations, and who plays them like an expert fiddler.
He fiddles now with my dick. My wrists, crossed over the head, he clutches with one hand. The other rises to his mouth. He spits, then covers my shaft in his wetness. My protest is performative; he ignores the rumble of discontent in my chest. “Mine,” he says, squaring his jaw. He gazes at me with possessive pleasure and spits in his hand once more.
“Come on, Son.” I wheedle, pretending to protest my captivity. He continues to study me while his closed hand swivels around my length. Jolts from his electric touch make every muscle twitch and leap. “You can’t do this to an old man.”
“I can do it to my old man. I’ve got that right.” Another load of spit, another groan from my lips. “You can’t hold out on me for so long. You can’t pretend you don’t want that big dick up my hole.”
I’d never pretend that. What I can’t communicate in words, though, as he short-circuits my brain again and again with the expert manipulation of my rod, is that he shouldn’t make me want him so badly. He shouldn’t make me beg for it. He shouldn’t make me crave it so much.
All I can do is writhe and stutter.
Triumph floods his eyes. He spits a final time upon his fingers, raises his hips, and slathers it on his hole. All his weight pushes into my crossed wrists as he presses them painfully into the pillows overhead. I don’t protest. My dick slaps with insistence against his backside as he lowers himself. He seizes it, looks me in the eye, and pauses. “You love your boy, don’t you, Dad?”
I swallow hard and nod even harder. “I sure do, Son.”
“Then fuck me.”
Like I have a choice.
Warmth and wetness engulfs me. I gasp and shudder as slowly he doles out my pleasure, inch by half-inch. I want to lunge into him, a long-starved man diving at the banquet of his dreams, but he’s got me locked in place. “You like that.” It’s more sneer than statement, but I cannot resent my sweet sadist. “I can tell. You want it all?”
I nod. “Please. Please let me in.”
“All the way?”
“All the way,” I agree.
“Is that what Dad wants?” I thought I’d made that part clear, but his question is rhetorical. With a spread of his hips, he absorbs another inch. Sensations begin to overwhelm him. His legs quake around me. “Fuck. That feels good.”
“All the way,” I urge him. “Take it, Son. Take Dad’s dick.”
“Yeah.” He grunts and lowers himself further. I can feel his cheeks stirring my pubes. “Dad’s dick needs this.”
“That’s right.” Power ebbs and flows between us. He’s still got me in his grasp, but now I’m the one giving orders. “Open up, Son.”
We both let out cries of happiness when he settles all the way down. I swell to what feels like twice my ordinary proportions, and am gratified when he lets out a pained huff. He’s making me do this. He’s making me gape his hole. The barbarous pride I feel in his ache is all his doing. I’m just a man flat on his back, being used by his son. Not my fault if he can’t take it.
“Motherfucker,” he says, staring at me. His long locks fall around his face as he begins to rise and fall, connected to me, ass to cock. “Keeping this dick from me for so long. You’re not a good Dad.”
“Yeah?” I raise my neck, look him in the eyes with challenge. “Take it out on me, then.”
“Oh, I’m gonna.”
“Do your worst, kid.”
And he does. I’m surprised at the ferocity of him, the violence with which he impales himself upon me. Time after time I’m certain I’m about to slither out of him, or that he’ll lose control and slam back down at a bad angle. He never does. Not once does my cock’s head leave his chute, though the ridge teases and flicks at the outermost pucker. This fuck is all about him. His needs. Mine are incidental—though trust me, they’re being met in full. He pulls into a fetal position atop me to maneuver himself up and down with an economy of motion.
From above, I feel his sweat drip down on my chest. His dick leaks slime on my abdomen. He’s a big boy down there, thick and uncut, so every slap of his ass causes his meat to land heavily on my belly a quarter-beat later. He accompanies that sweet syncopation with grunts that sound feral to my grateful ears. “Motherfucker,” he says over and over.
He has his way with me in sharp, short thrusts. Gravity seems to be dragging him down into me, the longer we knit our bodies together. His knees weigh on my ribcage; his forehead bores into my own. Bud releases my wrists, then takes my two hands in his own, interlocking our fingers. His hair tickles my ears, now; his lips press against mine. I welcome his tongue between my lips. Now his cock thrusts against me, his precum making my skin slippery enough to slide against. His breath becomes ragged—but mine is, too, the more relentless he is in leading me to my climax.
“Fuck!” The rickety four-poster rattles and squeals with his thrusts, protesting. I expect it to shatter into a hundred thousand splinters at any moment. “Fuck!” His dick chars my stomach as he shoves into it. Then I feel wetness sliding down my side. “Fuck yes!”
“Did you shoot, Son?” I’m pretty sure I know the answer, but I hope to hear his affirmation.
He releases my hands and cups my skull, his hips still rising and falling with the relentlessness of a piston. “Give it to me,” he demands in a cracked voice. “You owe me.”
I do. I owe him six years of seed. He gives me no choice but to pay up.
When I shoot, my juice scalds me on its exit; a column of fire sears its way up my spine and makes me clench and grasp at his hands. Bud holds me down to keep me from thrashing, but I buck and jolt anyway, clenching my teeth to an orgasm that feels a lot more like pain than joy. “That’s right.” He sits up now and holds his hands behind his bed, sitting himself firmly on my staff. “Give me all of that stuff.”
The moment subsides. The room falls quiet. Both of us still panting, we regard each other with steady eyes. I crack into a smile that I’m pleased to see return. He hauls me into sitting upright. For a moment, I fear I might flop back down like a ragdoll. But he scoops me into another embrace and gives me a squeeze. “Thank you, Dad. That was long overdue” I nod weakly over his shoulder. “I’m going to go back to that party and carry you inside me all night.”
Oh, crap. That is the sexiest thing I’ve heard in a while. When he releases me, I swing my legs around and fumble for the wooden stairs that will allow me to dismount the four-poster. He’s already vaulted on the floor, and offers me a gallant hand while I regain my balance. “That is just what I needed, Son,” I tell him. “Thank you.”
“Anything for my dad.” He’s already squeezing back into those ridiculously tight shorts, so I pull on my own clothes and wait for him. Not long after, we’re back out in the cool night air, his arm around me as we head west on Commercial Street. A leather man and his dad, out for a Saturday night in a resort town.
We pause for the last time in front of the Portuguese bakery. “Maybe we could meet up another time this week?” I suggest. It would be a shame to pass up our proximity.
He nods. “Don’t forget me, Dad.” Then, with a last kiss in front of anyone who might be watching, he strides off in the direction of the Crown and Anchor.
Forget Bud? As if I could.
***
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