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  He turned on some dumb action movie. Alan had spent the last twenty-odd years pretending to care about action films because it was the macho thing to do. Upon realizing he no longer had to pretend, Alan started channel surfing. He stopped when he saw an antiques appraisal show and they were evaluating an ancient-looking grand piano. His heart gave a twinge.

  Oh, no you don't. No you don't.

  His eyes pricked with tears as the appraiser tenderly picked out a few chords of "Moonlight Sonata." Alan shivered, as he could practically feel the ivory under the pads of his fingers, cool and smooth, just begging to be tapped in just the right way. He sighed and downed the rest of his glass of Scotch, reminiscing, aching, wondering. He slunk down into the couch, lower and lower. Just to learn that the piano was worth half a million dollars, and the appraiser moved on to something else.

  Pathetic, said a voice in his head.

  "Huh?" said Alan.

  I said you're pathetic. Sitting here, getting drunk, wallowing in self-pity about your bygone glory days. Well guess what, buddy? Those days are GONE. All you have is NOW. Stop feeling sorry for yourself and do something productive.

  Alan sighed again. He wasn't sure to whom the voice in his head belonged, but the voice was right. Crying over his Scotch about his abandoned love for music was as self-indulgent as it got, and Alan didn't want to be "that guy." He didn't want to be the sad, embittered old man with nothing to his name but a social security pittance and a laundry list of regret.

  Laundry.

  A small pile of dirty clothes on the floor. It wasn't overly conspicuous, but it contributed to the overall depressed, derelict feeling of Alan's life, so he made up his mind to get the clothes off the floor, wash them, fold them, and put the living room to order. He would straighten up and clean and maybe vacuum, he could even clean the bathroom, and wouldn't Wendy be so happy to come home from her little vacation to a clean apartment?

  Alan got himself excited about doing something nice for his daughter and soon forgot all about his own woes. He tidied up in the apartment for a bit, then gathered the clothes in his arms, along with some bath towels and the kitchen towel, and traipsed down to the apartment building's communal laundry machines down in the basement.

  It was sort of dank and cramped down there, but well-lit with a garish fluorescent light. Alan had to buy some detergent from a dispenser because he hadn't brought any down here. He stuffed the clothes in the washer, humming "Moonlight Sonata" under his breath, stuffed the quarters in the machine, and pressed "Start."

  Nothing happened.

  "Son of a bitch," Alan grumbled, pressing "Start" again. Every time he pressed "Start," the machine made a promising little beep sound, but nothing actually happened. "What do you want from me!?" he demanded of the machine, jamming his hands into his hips.

  "A nice, hard fuck would be nice," said a familiar voice behind him.

  Alan whirled around and saw Thomas standing in the doorway with a large, full laundry bag slung over his shoulder. He smirked, set the bag down, and sauntered over to where Alan was standing.

  "You need help with this machine?" he asked, getting just a little too close for comfort.

  "Uh," Alan said stupidly.

  "It's so cute when the elderly are confused by technology," Thomas teased. He backed Alan into the washing machine, pressed up against him, and, without looking, banged on the front of the quarter slot. There was a tinkling sound. Thomas pressed "Start," and the machine started. It started rumbling and vibrating. Thomas applied some pressure to his hips, bearing down on Alan's half-erect cock.

  "I saw how you looked at me the other night," Thomas purred, laying a hand on Alan's chest.

  "Huh?" Alan was barely able to breathe, all the blood rushing to his nether regions, his brain a cacophony of lustful thoughts and righteous indignation and disgust and confusion and the purest, soaring joy he had ever known. He wanted it to stop right now. He never wanted it to end. He stared down at Thomas as the lithe young man leaned ever forward, forcing Alan to lean back awkwardly with his hips hinging on the washing machine's edge, poking forward, the bulge in his pants all too prominent as Thomas pressed himself against it. The machine started vibrating again. Alan choked audibly as his dick was forcibly vibrated against Thomas's, separated by several frustrating layers of clothing. His face was scarlet, beads of sweat forming on his forehead despite the basement being chilly.

  "You're attracted to me, Alan, just admit it," Thomas murmured, bringing his face closer to Alan's.

  "Y-y... yeah," Alan managed to grunt. "Very," he added.

  "I have a severe fetish for older men," Thomas said, his tone the same as if he were spreading gossip about someone else. It was obvious that Thomas thought he was scandalous as hell and it only aroused Alan even more that this ridiculous little twink was literally throwing himself at him because of some fetish, apparently. Alan swallowed dryly and his member was at full sail, straining against the confines of his boxers and trousers. "I think you're so fucking sexy, with your sexy laugh lines and your gorgeous gray hair... do you think I'm sexy, Daddy?"

  "Fuck," Alan whispered, trembling faintly. Every time Thomas said Daddy like that, it was like getting the most wonderful electric jolt all through the core of his body.

  "Hmm?" Thomas prompted.

  "Yes," Alan choked. "You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."

  Thomas's eyes widened for a second, as if he were expecting a completely different response. His lips parted in confusion, then he forced Alan to sit on the washing machine, jumped up, straddled him, and thrust his lips against Alan's in a furious barrage of feverish kisses.

  At first, Alan was frightened, frozen stiff, unsure of everything. But as Thomas's small, graceful hands started rubbing his chest and petting his hair while they kissed, Alan relaxed. His arms slid around Thomas's waist, pulling him closer, and it felt so right. Not only was he aroused beyond reckoning, but his heart was singing, soaring, he wasn't naive enough to call it love just yet but he certainly felt something for Thomas.

  The clothes inside the washing machine did that thing where they bunch up on one side and the basket became uneven during the spin cycle. The machine began to rock back and forth, forcing the men's groins together in a rhythmic sort of sideways humping motion that made Alan press his forehead to Thomas's chest and groan loudly.

  Thomas was trying to remove Alan's glasses and jacket when a startled cry of "Oh my God!" issued from the laundry room entrance.

  Whoever had seen them was, evidently, squeamish, because they were gone before either man could see who it was. Alan's whole body went cold and his erection softened when he realized it could've been Wendy. What if she had forgotten something and come home to get it? What if she hated him now? He was kissing the boy she liked, more than kissing him, they were practically dry-humping by now and poor Wendy would feel so betrayed--

  Alan slid forward and off the washing machine, his face burning, tears pricking his eyes, he gently pushed Thomas aside and staggered out of the laundry room, shaking his head. He was so distraught that, at the top of the stairs out of the basement, instead of continuing to the main stairwell, Alan stepped outside and stumbled into the bushes and vomited violently.

  Thomas came running out, bending over Alan and smoothing a hand across his shoulders. "Poor baby," Thomas said softly. "Are you okay?"

  "No," Alan choked, wiping his eyes with a shaking hand.

  "What's wrong then?" Thomas asked, now petting Alan's hair in a soothing motion as Alan panted softly, still kneeling in the mulch.

  "I--... I..." Alan cast about for an answer, then, his brow furrowed, he looked up at Thomas. The setting sun behind his head darkened his figure into silhouette, with a golden halo of light illuminating every bright blond hair on his head. Alan gasped and scrambled to his feet. "I'm not gay!" he cried, running inside as fast as his quaking legs would carry him.

  "Oh, honey," Thomas murmured as he watched Alan run.

  CHAPTER
FOUR

  Alan practically fell into the apartment and shut the door behind him, panting, his chest heaving, and as soon as he was safely locked inside, he started to cry. He was confused, angry, embarrassed, and terrified that his daughter had just seen him in a compromising position with the object of her desire. It was quite possibly one of the worst things he'd ever thought of, one of the worst feelings he'd ever felt, and after crying it out with his back slumped against the front door, Alan dried his eyes, crawled back to the couch, and cracked open the Scotch once more.

  The next day, he had a nonchalant-sounding text from Wendy:

  Hi daddy we're at campground, bad cell svc. See u sunday love u xo

  According to the timestamp on the text, there was no way that Wendy was the one who stumbled upon himself and Thomas yesterday, so... that was good. Alan relaxed, but only slightly. He remembered that his clothes were in the washer, but the thought of going back down there made him nauseated. He'd probably have to get drunk again before he could make himself do it.

  It was all just a little bit too much for Alan, so he decided to lace up his sneakers and go for a run. Exercise always took his mind off things. That was probably why he was in such good shape, having suppressed pretty much every thought and feeling he'd had over the last twenty years.

  It was cold out, but a good day for running, with long pants and a sweatshirt on. Alan got into the groove of it and although Wendy's building was a bit of a slum, the surrounding neighborhood was nice. Typical college-town feel to it. Alan smiled to himself as he imagined his daughter living here and enjoying life, as he passed various bars and the famous old cinema and a couple of the university buildings. It was sort of a cozy feeling. Thinking about Wendy made him feel better and he jogged with a smile on his face, waving to people and greeting them, until he saw it. The old bar, the only place he'd ever really been free, and happy. The place where his heart had withered and died.

  The Goldfish Bowl.

  Kind of a silly name for such a place, but it was a fairly nice club with a decent reputation, especially among the music majors. Wendy's college had a renowned music program and this was their main haunt, as it had been Alan's when he attended so many years ago.

  Without obtaining his consent, Alan's feet came to a halt in front of The Bowl (as they used to call it). The facade was still the same tan-colored brick, but the signs had been updated. There was new neon, a new logo. New fishtanks in the window. It was closed right now, it only being about noon, and Alan was glad, because he knew he'd have to go in if it were open. As it was, he cupped his hands to the glass and tried to peer inside, but all the lights were off, so he couldn't really make anything out except the shine of the chrome on the barstools and the glasses hanging in a rack overhead. He stood there for a long time, fighting tears as the memories bobbed to the surface like apples in a barrel. When he could not stand the ache in his chest for another instant, he turned and ran two extra miles just to make sure he was good and tired. He didn't want any extra energy to spend worrying about the fucking Goldfish Bowl.

  Alan felt marginally better as he prepared himself some lunch, realizing he had never made good on his plan to clean Wendy's apartment. I'll do that after lunch, he thought, smiling to himself as he sat down to eat his sandwich.

  On his second bite, someone knocked on the door. He considered letting them just knock and go away without answering, since they were probably here to see Wendy and Wendy wasn't home, but he could at least tell them to try her cell in the meantime. He didn't want to be rude and he didn't want to upset Wendy's friends, so Alan took a huge bite of his sandwich and chewed diligently on his way to the door.

  When he opened it, there was Thomas, wearing a button-down shirt undone to the sternum, his smooth chest half-bared, holding a hamper full of Alan's clean, dry, folded clothes in his arms.

  Alan choked.

  No, he really choked, by trying to swallow and exclaim at the same time, his face flushed beet red and both hands went to his neck as he tried desperately to dislodge the sandwich from his throat. Thomas dropped the hamper and hurried behind Alan, he bent the man forward and delivered five swift blows right between his shoulder blades, then used two fists to perform forceful upward thrusts just below Alan's sternum.

  The repulsive blob of half-chewed sandwich flew out of his mouth and landed on the floor with a sickening splat. Thomas helped Alan stand up straight, then cupped his cheek, looking up at him with those huge blue eyes so full of gentle concern.

  "Are you okay? Here, come sit down." Thomas took Alan's arm and led him to a kitchen chair. Alan sank down, trembling.

  "I'm fine," he said, taking off his glasses to wipe the tears from his eyes. "Thanks for helping me, by the way."

  "Of course." Thomas rubbed Alan's back as the older man cleaned his glasses. "Sorry I took you off-guard, hun. I just wanted to bring back your laundry because people are total jerks about the machines. They'll straight-up dump your clothes on the floor if they feel like it."

  "Well you just dumped my clothes on the floor, but I guess I can excuse you since you saved my life. I appreciate it," Alan laughed, blushing a little, because he didn't quite know how to feel. One minute Thomas was an insufferable sex kitten, the next minute he was gentle and caring and chivalrous.

  "So about last night..." Thomas began.

  "I... I was kinda scared that it was Wendy," Alan admitted. "I really thought it was her, that's why I-- well, you know."

  "Come get coffee with me."

  "Huh?" Alan looked up at him.

  "I mean I want to hang out with you, Daddy. Come get a cup of coffee, maybe some food if you think you can manage to eat around me without choking or knocking me over. It'll be nice. You should get out of this apartment for a while, anyway, I can smell the Scotch. You're too sexy to become a sad drunk."

  "Sexy? Really?" Alan replaced his glasses and stood up.

  "Very," said Thomas, picking up the clothes that had fallen out of the hamper. Alan came over to help him, looking away shamefully as Thomas held up a pair of Alan's boring black boxer-briefs. "Crotch looks a little stretched out in these, hm?"

  "Oh, uh... um, I guess, they're kind of old--"

  Thomas cut the clueless man off with a kiss. He pitched forward and braced himself on his arms on either side of Alan's lap, leaning up to squelch the man's protests with more kisses. Alan panicked and stiffened and tried half-heartedly to get away, but it had been so long since he'd been "gratified" by anything but masturbation, and he missed being touched. Years, it had been. And his dick told him so, springing to attention as Thomas splayed a graceful hand on Alan's chest.

  He slowly forced Alan to lay back on the floor, his head pillowed by a pile of clean tee shirts. Thomas straddled his groin, grinding himself against the bulge in Alan's trousers, grinning down at the older man rather smugly, challengingly, as if to say, Yeah, that's right, keep trying to resist-- that makes it more fun for me.

  But as Alan lay there on his daughter's foyer floor, with the most beautiful young man he'd ever seen dry-humping his crotch, Alan felt something inside of him just... snap. Something gave. Whatever last thread that had held taut his powers of self-control had finally broken under the strain of Thomas's repeat advances. Alan just couldn't fight any longer. He lay there for a moment, stock-still with his arms pinned to his sides. But as Thomas rocked his hips and kissed the older man's lips and neck, Alan's hands slowly made their way to Thomas's narrow waist. He slipped his hands under the hem of Thomas's shirt, sighing as his fingers brushed the smaller man's warm, silky skin. He slipped his hands around and just inside the waistband of Thomas's jeans, gently feeling the subtle nubs of the boy's spine as he felt his way up. Thomas shivered and kissed him even more feverishly, pawing hungrily at Alan's smelly running shirt. Alan cooperated, then, with shaking hands, started unbuttoning Thomas's shirt. He gazed up at the younger man's beautiful, angelic face, slack-jawed with awe, and a thrill ran through his body as the last button came fre
e and Alan saw Thomas's naked torso. He slipped the shirt off the boy's skinny shoulders and let his hands wander, caressing the expanses of smooth, pale skin, unmarred by blemish or even hair, his ribs plainly visible as his chest heaved with excitement. Alan ran his hand down Thomas's chest, and let his fingers creep down into the front of the boy's pants. Thomas's prominent hipbones created a sort of cave at the top of the jeans, so that access to his stiff member was as simple as reaching.

  Alan's eyes fluttered shut. The warmth of the younger man's groin engulfed his hand. He felt about blindly, Thomas nuzzling and kissing his neck, until he grasped the organ. Alan elicited a soft whimper. It had been so long since he'd felt another man's cock, but he had never forgotten the warmth of it, the satisfyingly firm softness, the silky texture of the sac and the slippery feeling of the balls inside. Alan gasped for air as his hand cupped Thomas's sex, then closed around it, still separated from the organ by the boy's underwear.

  Thomas bucked his hips into the touch, issuing a needy moan, then, with an animalistic growl, he nipped at one of Alan's nipples and wasted no time pulling down the older man's tight running shorts and underwear all at the same time. Alan felt a little self-conscious, but he was too excited to think twice. So he followed Thomas's lead and unbuttoned the younger man's jeans and slid them down over his hips and buttocks, along with his underwear.

  Thomas paused for a moment, his hands both resting on Alan's chest. The fingers of one hand played through the sparse smattering of graying curls on Alan's muscular, lightly tanned chest, while the other massaged handfuls of Alan's pectorals, kneading him like a kitten, while Thomas just looked down at him with a strange expression of lust, and perhaps a bit of sadness. Alan let his large hands rest on Thomas's hips, simply relishing the sight of the younger man, and the feel of him sitting on top of him, running his hands up and down the skinny man's bony torso. Alan smiled crookedly and tweaked Thomas's nipple playfully, and then discovered that this was Thomas's "on" switch. Thomas gasped, and grunted, pressing his buttocks against Alan's member. Alan's heart pounded and he saw stars as it was a bit difficult to breathe in the anticipation of Thomas riding him.