Naked ain’t always pretty.
Grant and Ryan are two happy lovebirds although Grant thinks his boyfriend spends too much time at the office leaving him home alone even though they are saving up to buy their own apartment. The situation becomes even more unbearable when Ryan’s homophobic dad, Zef, crashes their cosy lifestyle looking for a place to stay after his wife kicks him out for his persistent infidelity. Now Grant has to spend his home time with his ugly old father-in-law who taunts him with faggot jibes walking around naked. The situation threatens to become explosive when Ryan won’t intervene to pull his dad into line, leaving Grant at the gay baiter’s mercy.
Ebook ID: 5112_1175
lyd Category: Men-4-Men
Length: 104 pdf Pages / 17576 words
Formats Available: pdf, prc, lit, zipped html,
lrf, epub, RB,
Ebook Cover Price: $2.99
“For God’s sake, dad, put some clothes on!” Ryan sighed as he saw what had stopped me in my tracks. “You’re not at home now. You could scare the neighbors.”
“Looks like I scared that little fag boyfriend of yours,” Zef muttered as he pulled the towel back around his waist. “I thought the slut would have seen plenty of cock in his time.”
“Da-ad!” Ryan warned.
Zef had been baiting me ever since he arrived, in front of his son and even worse behind his back. I’d complained about his obnoxious taunts but the sternest reprimand Ryan ever managed was to split the word ‘dad’ into two syllables. My boyfriend was so piss weak sometimes.
Up until now it had been verbal abuse, displaying his cock was something new. Okay, it appeared like an accident, his towel falling off as he walked back to the guest bedroom while I was coming along the hall, but I suspected it was an effort to belittle me with the size and girth of his schlong. If Ryan hadn’t come along right behind me, who knows where it might have led.
I don’t mean physically. Zef repulsed me. In his fifties, he looked more like a battered suitcase than a middle-aged man. His body was wiry and muscular, from his job as a landscape gardener, his hair peppered with some gray around the temples, but it was his face that seemed lived in. The wrinkles were more than skin deep, they seemed to be scored right into his soul and, with his piercing brown eyes, I always felt he was looking into depths I didn’t know existed. His constant sneer coupled with the unshaven stubble on his cheeks and chin gave him an otherworldly appearance. I hesitate to say he always appeared the personification of ‘evil’ because I don’t believe in the concept, but he definitely had a nasty quality to him.
That he was also an arch homophobe who constantly belittled me and his son’s relationship meant his stay was a visit from a hell. Fuck, why not say it? Zef was the personification of a suburban Satan.
So I wasn’t surprised when his prick looked like something from the paintings of Hieronymus Bosch.
I’m studying art history at university, a useless subject according to Zef, who is far from pleased his son is supporting me while I study. He thinks I’m a gold digger because Ryan has a small business that allows us to live comfortably although, with the downturn in the economy forcing him to let half his staff go, he has had to put more hours in. That, in turn, means more time alone with his dad. I was on summer vacation and even though I could spend time at the uni library or visiting friends, I wasn’t going to allow Zef to force me from my own home.
Extra worry was the last thing Ryan needed as he worked hard to pull the company out of the doldrums, so I kept the more outrageous examples of Zef’s barrage of abuse from him. I’d handle it myself although the slurs had become so monotonous and so irritating on a couple of occasions that I’d bunched my fists up in preparation for a physical solution to the problem. That had merely encouraged Zef to smirk. “Bring it on, fag boy. Think you stand a chance against a real man?”
“When I see any real men around here, I’ll let you know.” My response was hardly the stuff of Oscar Wilde but it put him in his place. For a moment.
Then he laughed. “I hope you don’t mean that ball-less wonder that’s my son. The fag lover who won’t even stand up for his boyfriend.”
That one hurt. Ryan was just sweeping it all under the carpet hoping it would go away. Well, it wouldn’t. Zef, however, would eventually depart. He was staying with us until his wife forgave one of his periodic transgressions. She’d caught him with his conscienceless dick up a neighbor and had thrown his out on his ass. With no money and no job, landscape gardeners were in even less demand than the goods Ryan’s company produced, he ended up in our spare room with an open-ended invitation to stay.
Ryan took me aside after the unveiling of the ugly family jewels, pleading, “Try and get along with dad please, Grant. I just don’t have the time or the energy to deal with all that shit right now. Okay? He’s just angry over being out of work and how things are with mum.”
I agreed, promising to try harder while knowing that Zef’s antagonism was much more deeply ingrained. All I had to do was hold on until uni returned after the break and I wouldn’t be forced to live with his macho superiority day in and day out.
Barry Lowe’s dreams of winning the Nobel Prize for Literature faded about thirty years ago when he realised what he wrote best was about the wild, whacky, wonderful world of sex and that his vocabulary would never rival Patrick White’s or even Evelyn Waugh’s. Since then he’s been happily churning out the odd gay sex comedy for stage as well as a mountain of newspaper columns and an avalanche of erotica for print and eBooks. He is also the author of Atomic Blonde, a biography of 1950s sex goddess, Mamie Van Doren. He lives in Sydney, Australia, with his long-term partner, Wally.
Check out his website at www.barrylowe.net.