Dad or Mom? Ch. 02

I heard voices. Male voices.

"Hold the pose, boys! Hold the pose!"

"It's hard, Mister Mizer, it's hard!"

"C'on, you guys are wrestlers. Grapple...grapple!"

There was a splash of someone diving into the pool.

I voice I knew carried up.

"Abs and calves? Every day?"

It was Eric.

"You bet, fella. Muscles that don't tire. But the others need rest and you space the workouts. With chest, back and arms, twice a week."

That was Coach Compton.

"Hey, Mister Gilles, you been working that tan. You are brown all over."

It was Eric talking now to my Dad.

"Well, the Chicago YMCA has a sundeck. So after every workout I'd stretch out. Sun on my ass, sun on my pecker and balls."

"That's cool. Like now! All stripped off in the sun!"

Holy cow! My dad and Eric in conversation! About nude sunbathing.

"Yeah, with the sun..."

This was the coach.

"...a bit each day is the best. The best way of getting that smooth, all-over, copper glow. Must be all-over. Can't stand tan lines on an athlete. Looks anaemic in a pose. Wrong image."

My heart beating, I searched the fence-enveloping thicket for a space to enter and look for a hole in the timber or a way of climbing up. Then with a bit of scrambling I was able to find a hollow, crawl inside and with one foot on a thick branch elevate myself so that my nose poked just above the top of the fence, into the branches of an aged black spruce. Through the thick leaves I could see nothing of the backyard. But...

...if I hauled myself up to the top of the fence and climbed into the branches of the tree I could sit in the groin formed by a limb and the trunk and look right down into the Compton backyard.

I reached up- tottered perilously for a moment- secured my hold on a branch and scrambled up. I screwed myself, like a Civil War sniper, into a secure position, the branch and trunk cupping my ass, my hold on the limb secure.

I only had to push one branch to the side and a curtain of leaves parted.

And I saw everything, staying unseen myself.

There were Dad and Eric standing on the lawn, nude. Except for the glasses each wore: Dad's horn-rims that made him look like one of the guys in an Esquire ad, Eric's plastic-framed. And Dad puffed his pipe, which gave him an appraising look as he stood facing my naked buddy.

I could see Eric's laced backside, boldly raised welts across what was now a brown, suntanned ass. I guessed they had already made light of it, that he had maybe lied and said his father had done it. Yes, that was his most likely lie. And I wondered what thoughts that might have set off in Dad's mind. That he should discipline his own son? Spank his own boy's bottom and make it welted? I hoped so. Meanwhile Eric was half erect, his small-headed, broad-beamed cock standing parallel to the ground; it pointed at my dad, seemed to accuse my dad.

For his part my father was sporting a tan that was absolutely even; he was copper-toned all over his compact, muscular, hairy body. His rounded glutes were defiantly brown. And his cock- compact and stout- was pointing straight at the ground, inflated and ready to rise, while he and Eric continued their conversation.

Dad's Edgeworth pipe tobacco drifted up and I could smell it, one of his distinctive odours.

Closer to the pool I saw Buddy Holland, a fella from my school and a favorite of the coach. Under his blond, flat top crew cut he too was a muscle-builder and today he was showing off his physique in a low hanging pink posing strap, stretched by an incipient erection. Looked like he had shaved his pubic hair. Right next to him stood Dad's workout pal, the tall, lean guy in his 20s with the piled Elvis-style hair. I had seen him with Dad in the showers at the Y. Suspected Dad had been soaping his back. But his long, thin penis with its teapot spout overhang was bagged in his bulging G-string cup.

The two guys were struggling with a wrestling pose while the photographer- I guess, this Mr Mizer- repositioned a box Brownie camera on a tripod. He was middle-aged with the physique of someone who hung around gyms but not too seriously. He too was naked and tanned. And his average-kinda prick stood out, half erect. They were now calling him Bob.

Standing nude, his muscles glistening with oil, was Coach Gordon Compton, his diminutive penis- the smallest here, the smallest in swim class, the smallest in the change room- dwarfed as always by his huge physique. He was doing some kind of yoga stretch while his attention wandered between the young men posing as wrestlers for Bob Mizer's camera and Eric and Dad locked in conversation. Dad's penis has risen to be, like Eric's, parallel to the ground.

The two of them nude, except for their glasses and Dad's pipe. And now erect.

"Whoa! Eric, those cuts on your ass, son!" Coach Compton had decided to close in. Your father, you said..?"

"Yep, that's my dad!" shrugged my friend, unembarrassed in this blatant lie.

"Show us again, Eric," said my father. And the boy turned around and presented himself. Even proudly.

Dad and Mr Compton moved in close. Dad took out his pipe and ran the end of it along the ridges. "Wow! He laid into you, Eric."

The coach reached out and stroked. Eric seemed to shudder, his erection jerked.

"Would you do that to your son, Tommy?" he asked Dad.

My heart leapt. "Say yes, please!"

"May have to," said Dad. "Tommy's doing pretty bad at school. Needs a wake-up."

I gulped. My penis stretched.

There was a slam of the fly-screen door.

Stepping into the sunlight came a body builder.

I recognised Harold Adducci. He was the Italianate young muscle man in the photos coach had used to tantalise me and Eric. He was black haired; his mane was swept back, wet. He was just out of the shower. His bulky shoulders were the top of a V that narrowed to a waist that could not have been tinier. His tummy was concave. Triceps defined themselves in the sunlight and the pecs were crafted breastplates off Roman body armour. His crowning achievement was the merger of his developed chest and the serrated ridges of his abdominals: one mechanism, one work of art. His thighs looked like torpedoes planted surgically under stretched olive skin.

As he walked all his muscles moved in unison, clenching and unclenching.

He wore a pale blue posing strap, stretched forward by its contents.

"Always slow to get outta bed, this fella!"

The Coach's comment dripped affection.

I watched as for an hour the three young models arranged themselves in separate poses for Bob Mizer. Boys pretending to wrestle. Standing with a spear. Sitting on a stool. Dangling legs in the pool. Hauling themselves out of it. Grinning like wholesome, happy American teenagers.

I loved it when Bob insisted on a shot from the rear and saw them shuck out of the G-strings and release them to casually flutter to the ground, before turning their backs to the camera.

Buddy suddenly projected an erection and was commanded to swim laps to make it subside.

Dad and Coach Compton looked on, Dad smoking his pipe. Every now and then one of them would unthinkingly fondle his own genitals. They were both half erect. From time to time they would whisper a comment.

And then it came to Eric's turn. He pulled on a lilac posing strap from a pile on a deck chair. Manipulated a retreating erection to fit into it. Took off his Clark Kent glasses. And took his turn on the stool.

"You got a nice physique bud," said Bob Mizer. "We can sure make you a cover boy. How'd you like that? Cover of Physique Pictorial?"

"Those biceps and abs could get your launched into Hollywood," said my Dad. "A manly physique based on proportion and symmetry can get you anywhere."

Up in the black spruce, through the leaves, peering through a drawn-back branch, I looked down like a junior god in Olympus, viewing flawed mortals locked in their stratagems and lust.

The world of Physique Pictorial!

I was looking at it.

And I was tempted to wriggle out of my seat between limb and trunk and drop right into it. Perhaps right into my Daddy's arms.

Or right over his knee.