I’d just gotten home from work and was in the kitchen drinking a glass of water when my son’s phone buzzed right in front of me.
I wasn’t snooping, but the message popped up so I read it.
Get over here and suck my cock, faggot.
What the fuck?
My son was no faggot… a word I hated for its derogatory associations. He was the starting quarterback of his high school football team, he’d been offered full ride scholarships to a dozen big name schools, and was dating, as stereotypical as you can get, his high school’s head cheerleader (yes, she was a blonde-haired, blue-eyed bombshell).
He must have been wrongfully texted.
But to be sure, I called out, wanting to see how he reacted, “Ben, your phone just rang.”
Ben came into the kitchen a moment later, a towel around his waist, obviously he’d been outside for a swim, and said, “Thanks, Dad.”
He grabbed the phone and looked at his message.
His face went bright red. To my surprise, he shot off a quick text and said, “I need to get dressed.”
“Okay,” I said as he rushed out of the kitchen.
What the fuck?
That was weird.
Perhaps it was an in joke.
I waited a couple minutes until Ben came downstairs still in a hurry and said, “I just have to run out for a bit.”
“Where you going?” I asked, now a little worried that the message I’d read may have been both for him and pertinent.
“Just meeting with the guys,” he said. I didn’t believe him.
“I was about to order pizza,” I said, trying to find a way to keep him here; food usually worked. “You sure you can’t hang around?”
“I’ll be back in half an hour or so,” he said. “If you want, I can pick it up after you order it. Get any kind you like.”
“I’ll just have it delivered,” I said, deciding to follow him. I had his phone on GPS, although he didn’t know that.
I actually didn’t do it to spy on him per se, but he was pretty downcast when his mother died of cancer a couple years ago, and knowing where he was had put me at ease during that tough first year.
I hadn’t used it in over a year.
“Okay, I’ll be back as soon as I can,” he said in a hurry.
“Okay,” I said, a little crestfallen my son could be lying to me. We only had each other, and I thought he shared everything with me. Although I suppose it was a bit naïve for any Dad to think their teenage son shared everything with their old man.
“See you soon, Dad,” he said, dashing out the door.
Was my son gay? Bi?
It just didn’t make sense.
I waited a couple minutes, turned on the tracker on my phone and went to my car.
I followed him.
It was only a five-minute drive, but to one of the poorer areas on the edge of our school district.
I was a history teacher in the same school as my son. I’d also coached basketball until two years ago when I removed it from my schedule to grieve my wife’s death, and I still didn’t have the fire to resume coaching.
According to his phone, Ben was inside a somewhat beat-up house.
He couldn’t really be in there to suck a cock, could he?
It was a question I kept repeating in my head, a question where the answer seemed obvious. No way.
Yet what other explanation could there be for the text I’d seen?
Or for his reaction to the text?
Or for his quick departure?
Or for his now being in a sketchy house in a rough part of town?
Okay, so he must be in there either sucking someone’s cock or about to.
I hadn’t considered what to do after reaching his destination.
Should I wait until he came out and then confront him?
Should I barge into the house?
After running through some brief pros and cons, I made a decision.
If my son was sucking a dick, it had to be because he was being bullied, or perhaps blackmailed.
No way was he gay.
His girlfriend was a ten. I’d overheard them having sex in the house on more than one occasion. It had been very loud and therefore enthusiastic on both sides.
Nope, there had to be a different explanation than my only son being in there voluntarily.
So I got angry and out of my car, locked it (and double-checked… it was a sketchy area) and stalked up the front steps.
I considered knocking, just barging in was technically breaking and entering, but I was furious and needed to protect my son.
So I stormed through the front door, which was unlocked, entering the living room.
Where all my worst fears were realized.
My son was on his knees and bobbing on Jamal’s cock slowly… Jamal a wide receiver on my son’s team.
“What’s going on here?” I roared. The answer was obvious, but I had to roar something.
“Isn’t it obvious, Mr. Barry. Your son is sucking my cock,” Jamal drawled while my son backed away in mortified shock.
“D-D-Dad,” Ben stammered as he stood up, revealing Jamal’s hard, midnight-black cock, which was shockingly large in both length and girth.
“Mr. Barry, you should have knocked,” Jamal rebuked me, not doing anything to hide his cock; it was pointing directly at me.
“Leave, Ben,” I demanded, “we’ll talk about this when I get home.”
“Yes, sir,” Ben said, sheepishly rushing out.
“You can finish this later,” Jamal called after him with a smug smile, but looking directly at me.
“Put your penis away,” I demanded, Jamal never having been disrespectful to me before.
He scoffed, “First, you’re an uninvited guest in my home, so I’ll hide it away or not as I wish. Second, you’re an adult Mr. Barry; unless we’re in a science class, we grownups call it a cock.”
“Jamal, I’ve had enough of your disrespect…” I began, but he interrupted me.
“How have I disrespected you? You’re the one who barged into my home, all angry,” he pointed out.
“Just put that thing away,” I said, waving it away, not able to ignore its mammoth size.
“It is impressive, isn’t it?” he said, acknowledging that I’d stared at it longer than I should. I’m not gay at all, but I can recognize a big cock.
“Whatever,” I said nonchalantly. “Just leave my son alone.”
“Hey, if he doesn’t want my BBC, I know other white cock suckers who do,” he shrugged, actually stroking his erect cock while speaking to me.
“That’s ludicrous,” I said.
“Plus, your son is eighteen; you should ask him if he wants you to keep him away from his natural place on his knees,” Jamal continued.
“Just leave him alone,” I repeated, the idea it was his natural place ridiculous.
“You understand that all I did was text him to come and suck me, and he hurried right over,” he pointed out.
“Yeah, right. What do you have on him?” I asked, not accepting that what he’d said could be the whole story.
“Nothing, this isn’t blackmail or anything,” he shrugged. “He just likes BBC.”
“What is BBC?” I asked, his using that acronym twice now.
“Big black cock,” he explained.
“That’s ridiculous,” I said, no way would anyone’s race matter in my son’s sex life, whether he was willing or not. There were bigots in the world, but jocks are seldom among them: if they were, teamwork would suffer and we’d lose games unnecessarily.
“Check Pornhub or pretty much any porn site, and see how many videos you find showing white guys submitting to black guys,” he said, still stroking his hard cock, before adding, “although most often they’re older whites with younger blacks.”
“That’s just porn,” I dismissed his point, porn often being people’s darkest fantasies. I watched porn more than I used to… what with my being alone now and not willing to get back in the dating game, but I didn’t pay attention to the cocks or to anyone’s race, just the women: tits, ass and legs.
“Actually, the real-life cock suckers are often men your age. They suddenly begin to question their sexuality and become curious about sucking cock,” he added with complete confidence, totally believing the ludicrous words coming out of his mouth. “Especially about sucking big black cock.”
“Yes, because all black men have huge cocks,” I said sarcastically, even though I kept taking the odd glimpse at his, a compulsion which wasn’t helping my cause.
“Not all,” he said, sounding like a professor, “but the general stereotype does happen to be true. On average, black men have substantially larger cocks than white men. There are certainly small black cocks and large white cocks, but those are more the exception than the rule.”
“Right,” I said, continuing my sarcasm, wondering why I was even allowing this conversation to continue.
“The biggest cocks in the world are from Congo,” he revealed.
“And you’re from Congo?” I asked sarcastically.
“No,” he laughed, “but I’m flattered that you think I am.”
“Not what I meant,” I said. “Just leave my son alone.”
“Tell you what: I won’t give him the privilege of sucking my cock again until after you’ve sucked my cock,” he said smugly.
“Perfect,” I said, ignoring his smug assumption that I was interested in his cock.
“See you soon,” he said as he reached for his phone.
“Unlikely,” I said.
“Well, at school for sure,” he pointed out.
“Yeah, whatever,” I said, turning to leave, and only then realizing my cock was rock hard.
“Mr. Harper, get your ass over here,” I heard Jamal order, as I reached his front door.
My eyes went big.
Mr. Harper was the football coach. An ex-NFL linebacker who took shit from no one. And that was really quick; Jamal had him on speed dial?
“Yes, sir,” I heard the undeniable voice of the coach respond from Jamal’s speakerphone.
I left the house, not wanting to hear anymore, and needing to get out of there.
I went to my car, backed up a few houses and waited. I wanted to see, perhaps needed to see, if Mr. Harper would really come over. This surreal day was getting even weirder.
It had sounded like his voice.
But it hadn’t sounded like anything he’d ever say.
Even the word ‘sir’ was something I’d never heard him utter.
I also needed time to think before I went home and confronted my son.
Why had I let Jamal talk to me like that? He was still in high school, for fuck’s sake.
Why was I unable to avoid looking at his big black cock?
Why the fuck did I just think of it as big and black?
Why was I completely hard?
I wasn’t remotely gay.
I mean, I could tell when a man was attractive, but I was never attracted to a man.
I loved women.
I loved the beauty of a woman’s face: her eyes, her lips, her smile.
I loved blondes, redheads and brunettes… although I had a particular weakness for redheads.
I loved tits.
I loved a nice ass.
I loved a nice pair of legs, especially in some sort of hosiery.
I loved the entire feminine package.
And what about my son?
He definitely sucked cock: I’d just seen him doing it.
Was he gay?
Perhaps he only sucked BBC?
Wait, what a dumb idea.
Although Jamal had denied it, maybe Ben was being blackmailed.
Or perhaps being bullied.
Bullying seem unrealistic; Ben could likely take Jamal in a fight, or at least put up a damn good battle. He had twenty pounds on him for sure.
Blackmailed. That still seemed to be the most logical explanation. But why? How?
A car drove past and parked in front of me a couple houses away, and out flew Mr. Harper.
No fucking way!
Dressed in his usual coaching attire of grey sweats, he hurried into the same house I’d left just minutes ago.
I couldn’t believe it.
Not only had my son gone into that house to suck cock, perhaps willingly, so had the coach… the most machismo man I’d ever met.
It just didn’t make sense.
Was he being blackmailed too?
What was worse was he was married.
To a ridiculously hot former NFL cheerleader who was a good fifteen years younger than he, and still a perfect ten.
Why would he cheat on a babe like her?
It made no sense.
I drove away and headed towards home, wondering how to approach the upcoming conversation with Ben… and how I would now see Mr. Harper or Jamal on Monday at school.
Thank God it was Friday and I had the weekend to deal with all this surrealism, almost feeling like I was being punked by the information.
I picked up a pizza and a couple of slurpees (there is nothing better than an all meat pie and a cream soda slurpee) and headed home resolved to assure Ben I wasn’t mad, but we needed to talk.
I walked into the house and Ben, near tears, groaned, “I’m so sorry, Dad.”
I handed him a slurpee and said calmly, “Apology accepted. Now let’s both chill; we can eat and have a talk.”
“Okay,” he said, surprised by my calm. Truth is, I was a very calm person ninety-nine percent of the time, but when I exploded, usually when my favourite teams lost, I tended to lose it. No one yelled at the tv and the officials like I did (somehow thinking they would hear me).