What Daddies Do

I was eating lunch in a deli Sunday afternoon that seemed to be attracting quite the flow of hot guys through its doors. When I entered with what remains of my little household in tow, there were three frat boy types lounging in front of the chalkboard menu, wearing sloppy sweatshirts and baseball caps tugged low over their foreheads to conceal their sleepy faces, but all also sporting no underwear and flowing basketball shorts that barely concealed the outlines of their dicks flopping around between their uniformly hairy legs.

There was a handsome fellow in scrubs from the nearby hospital, his steel-gray hair trimmed to perfection with precision shears and a level. He chatted with another blue-clad buddy, a dark-eyed, bearded, scruffy whelp who made me want to spank and fuck his round little butt. Fit jock married men sat at the various tables, using their bulging biceps to stuff their faces with sandwiches on fresh-baked rolls.

It certainly gave me inspiration of where to spend my Sundays from now on.

We’d ordered and had chosen a table and settled in to eat our meal when from the bathroom emerged a sexy daddy. His head was shaved, so it was difficult to tell if his hair was fair or gray; a red baseball cap covered most of his dome. The legs sticking out of his shorts were stocky and solid; his build was beefy. Despite his sharp nose and bright blue eyes, he reminded me of a pug dog, all masculinity and assertion and stout presence. I knew he was a daddy because he had two kids in tow, neither any older than five or six; he’d obviously been in the restroom helping them wash their hands before the meal.

“Come on, girls,” he said, as he walked toward my table, beyond which the line to order started. “We’re going to get our food and go.”

He was halfway through that sentence when he saw me. Our eyes locked. Mine remained on his; his didn’t move from mine. We held glances for much longer than is common between two men, especially when one of them is motion. He kept talking as our glances remained frozen. Though I felt the jolt of electricity and recognition immediately, it took my brain what felt like an eternity to process the information, and to realize that the daddy in the baseball cap was, despite the domesticity of his situation, aware of the other men in the restaurant as well. Very much aware, in fact.

Then, like a soap bubble, the moment dissipated and vanished. He cast a quick look at me over his shoulder as he stepped into line, but his attention was captured by another comely face. There was a young guy lounging against the rail wearing a pair of loose-fitting sweatpants and a floppy T-shirt. The waistband of his pants hung low enough to expose the boxers he sported underneath. The daddy stared at the young man intently. When their eyes didn’t meet, his own traveled down the boy’s frame, taking in the lanky arms, the impossibly long torso, the little spur of fuzz projecting over the elastic of the sweatpants. Finally they stopped at the little bobble of cloth where the dick head lay, before returning to the boy’s face. “Pick out what you want, girls,” he said from a distance. “Do you want PB&J? PB&J sounds good, huh?”

I just shook my head and returned to my sandwich. There was one daddy who hadn’t been laid in a while. I knew the symptoms.

A handsome goateed guy in a tight-fitting sweat dropped his tray at the table behind my booth right as Daddy picked up his bag of PB&Js and started to exit the building. “I’ve got to wash my hands,” the goateed guy said to his seated girlfriend, as he breezed by to the restroom.

“Honey, just sit at this table. I’ll be right back,” announced Daddy, depositing his girls at the both opposite ours, along with his bag of sandwiches. “Daddy’s gotta go.” Immediately he veered after the good-looking man into the restroom. The little girls obediently sat down, little legs swinging from the bench, as Daddy stuffed his hands into the pockets of his jeans and disappeared into the men’s room.

None of this surprised me, of course. It’s what horny dads do. Even when they’re out with their girls on a weekend lunchtime jaunt, their eyes are dancing over the prospective males in the room, in the parking lot, out at the mall, among the other daddies on the playground. Sizing them up. Judging the bulges in their pants. When a man is horny, it doesn’t take much to turn him from responsible parent into the bad dad who leaves his charges unsupervised at a table by themselves in the middle of a crowded restaurant. Sad, but true.

I’ve known guys who’ve had sex in their basements and garages after dark while the family’s asleep upstairs. I’ve known dads who’ve left their kids sleeping in the back seats of locked cars while they quickly sucked a dick in a rest stop, late at night. I’ve been to men’s houses and discovered only after I’d rolled around with them that they had an infant sleeping in another part of the house.

The restroom door had scarcely swung behind this particular daddy when the goateed guy emerged, shaking his hands to free them of the last lingering moisture.

I immediately figured that Daddy hadn’t seen what he’d hoped to see in there. I was right, because he emerged just a scant moment later, hands still stuffed in his pockets. “Okay, girls, we're ready to go.” He sounded bluff and cheerful, but I detected an undertone of disappointment.

When I looked out the window after him, he had his eyes fixed on yet another good-looking guy talking to a friend by his hybrid. There are a lot of horny daddies out there.

Most of them, however, don’t cruise as gracelessly as the one in the red baseball cap.