Daddy [mxm]

1

I don't understand my fascination with him in the slightest. Rudy Palmer is an American everyman, just a middle-aged guy from Texas with a beautiful, blonde wife, three kids, a dog, and a lovely house. An elegant, sprawling estate. One motorcycle, one white Ford F-250 - 'cause summer is already hot in Texas without a black car - and one sleek, cherry-red Lexus for the wife. Lush flower garden. Wine tasting. Cruises. Golfing. But nothing really out of the ordinary.

Now that he's climbing out of the pool, it's plain to see that he's not male model material by conventional standards. He's got a muscular but stocky build: solid, rugged and bulky. His body is hairy and sinewy, roped with hard slabs of muscle under the smooth, curved slopes of some healthy fat. A bulkiness that makes me want to risk my reputation. He doesn't have a beer gut, but I would definitely feel the hairs of his belly drag across my back if he were on top of me. That's something I think about, apparently.

From my vantage point in the car, I see him drag both hands through his soaking hair, and yearn. It must be that the Chinese proverb is true. That which is the least obtainable is the most desirable and that which is the most obtainable is the least desirable.

It's a hot summer day, middle of a dry spell. Rudy's started watering the large expanse of grass around the house by now. He and his wife like to keep the sprawling premises pristine. The grass is always greener at the Palmer residence. In every sense, I think bitterly.

Cicadas and faint traffic noises mingle with the laughter of Rudy's kids. The sun's rays flit across surfaces and make them wink like glitter. The man himself seems to sparkle in the light, although that may just be the imaginings of a sick, besotted mind.

I'm boiling in this oven of a car. Beads of sweat pool on my forehead, crawling down my temples. Groaning softly under my breath, I fish out my phone.

Hey fuckrag, I text my best friend. What's the holdup?

The holdup is probably girlfriend-shaped, but fuck if I'm gonna let him get away with it one more time. She's been getting in the middle of us and ruining bro time for years, so I don't make it easy for her.

I'm baking in here, and already fifteen minutes late, so I decide against waiting for him longer.

The slam of my car door and chirp of the lock brings ole' Henry trotting around the side of the house. The golden retriever greets me in the driveway, pawing at my shirt with his tongue lolling.

I stumble back into the curvy, gleaming surface of the red Lexus.

"Hey, boy!" I effuse, crouching to offer my face up for a royal licking.

The house is a large, white-painted single, with a double garage and cascades of climbing roses tangled in the patio trellises. A beautiful and carefully-tended garden adorns most of the lawn, and the steps wind their way along the side of the house onto a gorgeous little terrace. I breathe in the soothing scent of roses and lilac.

Suddenly, I'm being sprayed. My eyes crumple shut and I twist my face around to avoid the onslaught, which promptly abates.

"Rudy!" I squawk inelegantly.

"Oops, sorry, didn't see ya there!" A handsome, dimpled smirk is my compensation.

"Haha, very funny." I flush, only partly from the heat.

"Oh, there you are, Evan!" The cheery wife with her quintessential blond bob comes out front to greet me. "Come on out back. Dinner has been melting on the patio table for almost half an hour. Where's Bret?"

"Dunno, ma'am. He wasn't picking up." A bitter pang of jealously unfurls inside me at the thought of him losing track of time with his girlfriend. It's been a long time since I had my best friend's attention all to myself. It would help if I wasn't so painfully goddamn single.