Just Like Old Times

This is a story - a romance of sorts - that involves a grandfather and and his grandson. Readers should take not of that and the category it is under.

***********

The bed I'm resting on is every bit as lumpy as I remembered it from back in late Spring, but that's okay by me because I wasn't interested in sleeping anyway. Besides it's muggy despite the window being open, and my grandparents house doesn't have air conditioning.

Chances are even if the old farmhouse had AC, my grandmother probably wouldn't turn it on. I could just imagine her ranting and raving to my grandfather about the cost of electricity to use something like an air conditioner, since she throws a bit if he has the nerve to turn on a fan to cool the place.

It's not like they're hurting for money, because they seem to be doing fine, and I remember one time seeing a financial statement from my Grandpa's retirement fund which suggested that were doing a whole lot more than okay.

"It's just her way," I remember Grandpa telling me once, during one of our late night chats. "She wasn't always like this, Marc. It's just that sometimes when you get old..."

I didn't argue with Grandpa, but frankly I didn't remember her ever being much different, and I spent a lot of time around their house over my 19 years. I do know it's gotten worse in recent times, and I suspect she might be starting to lose it a bit, even though she's only 67.

"That's what I get for marrying an older woman," Grandpa said once, although she's only 4 months older than him.

The thing is that he doesn't act it. He's retired, but he's still an active guy who I have to struggle to keep up with whenever we do things like taking hikes. Grandma, on the other hand, spends her days sitting around and complaining about aches and pains that may or may not exist.

I know it sounds like I don't love my Grandma, and that may be partly true at times, but only because I hate the way that she treats him, belittling him and nagging at him every chance she gets. More than once I've asked him why he stays around and takes it, because I know that the affection part of their marriage ended years ago.

"When I said till death do we part, I meant it," Grandpa once told me, and while I know there's no way I could endure what he does, I admire the fact that he's a man of his word.

Obviously, I look up to my grandfather, because since my Dad passed away years ago, he's been like a father figure to me. He's taught me more than I ever learned at school, and even now heading into my sophomore year of college, if I need to know something, I go to Grandpa before Wikipedia.

I not only respect and admire my grandfather, I love him too. I love him in ways that you aren't really supposed to love your grandfather, and I think he feels the same way toward me. I know he feels shame and guilt about that, but I don't. Maybe it's a generational thing. I'm not sure.

It's fair to say that we have an unusual relationship. Incestuous would be an accurate term, although to me that sounds dirty and what we do isn't that. It's a sharing of love and affection, and for those expecting something way out there, our story isn't that. Not at all.

This is the second and last night of my visit, since I have to continue driving west tomorrow out to college. I'll return here again around the holidays, and then once more after school ends come next Spring. I might sneak out for a weekend in between, if things work out. If I could, I would be here all the time.

Last night - last night was like many nights have been around here of late, and I'm hoping that tonight brings more of the same. I guess I'm always afraid that maybe Grandpa's guilt might set in big time, but it hasn't, and it didn't last night.

I was in bed last night just like tonight, waiting. It's like waiting for Santa Claus back in the day, only Grandpa is real, and he never disappoints. The anticipation is so intense it's sometimes almost suffocating, but then I hear the light creaking of my bedroom door.

I was sleeping on my side, facing away from the door so I could savor the sight of the shadow on the wall. Grandpa's only about 5'10" and slender as a rail, but the shadow makes him look larger. Grandpa then moved into the room and closed the door behind him, with the turning of the bolt following.

The cat-like footsteps follow, and then Grandpa steps over to the side of the bed I'm facing. My eyes have adjusted to the darkness somewhat, but Grandpa's haven't, and it takes him a second to realize that the sheet is pulled down already. After he figures that out, he gently climbs into bed facing me and eases closer.

"You awake, Marc?" Grandpa says, the minty toothpaste aroma arriving just after his words.

"Is the bear Catholic?" I reply, one of our frequent barbs, and we both giggle like school children being naughty.

We talked for a while, about generic stuff we had touched on earlier in the day when all four of us were together, and then we started talking about other things. Things I would never talk about with anybody other than Grandpa.

"You going to try and room with Greg this year?" Grandpa asked.

"No," I said, my hand reaching over and touching Grandpa's shoulder, and as I let it slide down to his chest I explained. "That didn't end up too well last semester, and the e-mails we've exchanged? Well, let's just say I forgive but don't forget."

Greg had been my roommate and my lover during my freshman year, and things had been good until I came back to our place after feeling ill in class and found him getting his dick sucked by some dude on the basketball team.

I had shared that news with no one besides Grandpa, because nobody else knows that I'm gay. Not Mom, who's oblivious to everything I do. Nobody except Grandpa. He knew I was gay - hell - I think he knew I was gay before I did.

"You're young," Grandpa told me back then. "Experiment. That's what youth is for. I suspect your Dad did, although I never pressed the issue, and I sure as heck did my share when I was your age."

Hearing that my father might have been bisexual was a little bit of a shock, but hearing Grandpa admit that he had a thing for guys back in the day was a real eye-opener, and made me feel less -I don't know - less queer, I guess.

"You'll find somebody quick enough," Grandpa assured me last night. "You're a good catch for somebody. Maybe the he might be a she, who knows?"

"Anything's possible," I said to Grandpa as my hand slid into the cloud of silver hair that covered his chest. "But I doubt it."

Doubt was not quite the word, because girls just did nothing for me sexually. I enjoyed them socially and had many close friends of the other gender, but when it came to being attracted to someone, I knew what I was.

The conversation stayed in that tone, but my hand was drifting lower. The slow and seductive thing worked with me for a while, but it had been a couple of months since Grandpa and I had been intimate, and my impatience was evident.

Down Grandpa's stomach my hand went until I hit the elastic of his boxer shorts. With a flick of my fingers the snap came undone, sounding like a clap of thunder in the quiet room, and then my hand slid into the nest of curls above his manhood.

I raked my fingers through the bush, working my way down until I reached the stump of his penis, and Grandpa was working the shorts down to give me better access. This was the way we did things, with me taking the initiative. Grandpa was much better at self-control than I was, and wasn't already sporting an erection at this point like I was.

I lifted Grandpa's penis up from the bedding, the tube warm and rubbery, and as he lay on his hip I began to slowly pull on his organ, imagining as always what his cock looked like.

Strange, isn't it? To have shared countless orgasms with someone and not know what his dick looks like? It's true. My only contact with his penis has been with my hands. That's not my idea, because if it was up to me, Grandpa and I would have done anything and everything two men could do to and with each other.

"I feel guilty enough as it is. I can't," Grandpa had insisted so many times that I've stopped pressing the issue, but not after making it clear that anything Grandpa wanted to do to and with me, I was more than ready for.

So it's my hand down there, gently pulling on the organ that I wouldn't recognize by sight. I know it's a lot like mine, slightly longer than average and a bit thinner than the norm. I can tell that Grandpa is not circumcised, while I am, and that's the only difference I can detect.

It takes me a few minutes to get Grandpa hard, but that's fine by me. I love the feel of his flaccid member in my hand, and it has an elastic quality that mine doesn't have, maybe because I seem to get hard whenever a hand even approaches.

I lean forward, nuzzling into Grandpa's shoulder while keeping the lower part of my body away from Grandpa because my cock is hard as steel and pointed right at him. He knows where to find me, and after he gets erect his hand will come.

Already Grandpa has the tube of Intensive Care lotion out, and I can smell the vanilla as he opens it. Then his hand comes down and joins mine. The lotion is applied and after his hands makes a few trips with mine his cock is now greased and I can feel it get longer, thicker and stiffer.

Grandpa takes a deep breath through his teeth as my hand starts sliding up and down a shaft that is starting to throb. I can feel his foreskin moving with my spinning hand, and now he's fully erect, his 67 years not affecting the close to 7 inches in my grasp.

In the murky darkness I see his arm move, and only then do I slide my hips closer to him. His fingers touch my bush, since I long since stopped wearing anything to bed up here. Now I groan as his weathered fingers, slick with lotion, find my cock. His hand moves slowly because he knows that compared to him I am so immature, so unable to restrain myself.

"Just like old times," Grandpa whispers as he takes the words right out of my mouth, and now we're together, next to each other, face to face, our bodies touching, and then our hands do this ballet of sorts.

This was new to me when Grandpa introduced it to me, and I thought that this was only the prelude to everything else. Our cocks are pressed together; with mine on top, the head of mine pushing into Grandpa's pubic hair, and Grandpa's prong below, with his glans prodding the area between my cock and balls.

Our hands, slick with lotion, move as one, spinning up and down the lengths of our members, squeezing them together while we gently grind into each other as our breathing gets heavier.

Grandpa once referred to what we do as frottage, but there's a lot more to it than two guys rubbing their dicks together. It's our hands and our hips and our hearts as well. We move slowly as one while nibbling into each others necks.

Grandpa can tell when I'm getting close to losing it, and he slows and lightens his grip until I get back in control. I think Grandpa could probably do this all night, and that's when I most wish we went beyond this.

In my fantasy I picture him mounting me, slowly probing me with this long and beautiful cock, and only cumming when he senses I've had enough. That was probably the way he was with Grandma back when they were really married, the master craftsman in the art of making love, bringing her to countless orgasms until filling her with the seed that would help build our family.

How long does this last? Never long enough although last night I managed to hold off for about 20 minutes I guess, before I finally whispered that I couldn't hold back much longer, and like he hit a switch Grandpa started breathing heavier and thrusting into me harder.

I started cumming, blasting my lead into his pubic hair, and as my spurts continued I heard Grandpa make this sound he usually makes. Our hands are now clutching the mass of manhood like a vice, and then I feel Grandpa's seed landing on my balls.

"I love you, Grandpa," I sob, and there's tears coming out of my eyes. I won't deny it, because I'm an emotional kind of guy and I love this man so much.

We were both still huffing and puffing, and even though we both stopped cumming we continued squeezing our deflating dicks together with hands that are dripping with a cocktail of lotion and cum.

Our hands don't stop, although it's tougher to keep hold of us limp, but since we seem to not lose much size after ejaculating we manage to go on, mainly because it feels so good. That's not the only reason.

Sometimes, like last night, I'm not done. When it's been a couple of months since I've seen Grandpa, I'm kind of excited. I usually manage to avoid jerking off in the days before my visit, so by the time we get together, I'm - like Grandpa is fond of saying - like a bull in heat.

So last night, as we cuddled while pulling on our cocks, I start to feel myself come back to life, and soon it becomes apparent to Grandpa too. He usually says something like, "You rascal!" at that point, or pretends to be annoyed.

It's all an act of course. Many is the time he's said that he enjoys my orgasms vicariously through me, and it's the only time he ever wishes he was 50 years younger so he could keep up.

So then our hands were jacking off one limp cock and one stiff one. There's no need for me to delay the next orgasm, so I don't. Like usual, this time I'm grinding into Grandpa hard, my leg going up on of his, and Grandpa is whispering, "Cum for me Marc. Cum good for Grandpa."

I do, and while it's not as intense as the first orgasm, both because the edge is off for me but also because we aren't cumming together, it's still good. Our hands relax and then fall off. Our bodies are still together, but now the two dicks are dead, with Grandpa's seed drying on my balls and mine turning Grandpa's pubes into a crusty and bizarre sculpture, I'm sure.

At that point, last night, I fell asleep in Grandpa's arms. Suddenly, his comforting arms somehow make the lumps in the bed disappear, and when I wake up it's morning and he's gone. He sneaks out while I sleep, for obvious reasons.

But that was last night, and now here I am in bed. It's getting a little late. Later than usual, and sometimes I fear that maybe he fell asleep or that dreaded guilt set in.

I also think - hope - pray - that tonight Grandpa will say the words I want to hear, and that the things I've always wanted Grandpa to do to and with me happen. I can dream.

Now though, there's a creaking of the floor boards out in the hall, and now the door is opening. The shadow on the wall appears and then disappears, and then door is bolted and the footsteps come to the side of the bed.

"You awake, Marc?" Grandpa says after climbing in next to me.

"Is the bear Catholic?" I respond, and we giggle, and everything is right in our world.

***

thank you for reading