I’m as embarrassed as hell. Normally, I wouldn’t even consider appearing in public like this. Naked, except for handkerchief-sized red Speedos strung up between my cheeks like those Aussie lifesavers. I hope none of the neighbors is watching as I knock on the door to my best mate Robbie’s house, hoping he won’t answer the door. I’m praying it’s his dad.

You see, I have a problem. I’m 19, pretty good looking, not an ounce of body fat on my slim, okay skinny, frame. Long, black hair, which hangs seductively across my face. My dick is average size, between 6⅝”-7”, depending on which porn movie is in the DVD player when you measure. My body is twink hairless except for a clump of pubic seaweed, and my ass is smooth as butter and as bubbly as a balloon.

Okay, what’s the problem, you’re asking? The problem is I just can’t get laid. Let me rephrase that. I can’t get laid by the guys I fancy. I suppose two telling points I should mention here: I’m a bit on the, shall we say, less than macho side, nothing flaming, but you’d never mistake me for Russell Crowe. Plus, I’m a top. Sure, I’d love to reciprocate, but just the idea of a cock entering my butt hole sends my body into shutdown and sphincter central locks all entrances to the building.

Oh, did I mention my homme (yes, I’m studying French at college) of choice is a delicious, mature daddy with just a fleck of grey through his temples highlighting his desirability. Alas, most men of that age either find it too arduous to douche or simply only have time to stick their dick in any available twinkhole and squirt before racing home to the wife, husband or spouse of unspecified gender.

I usually satisfy myself with a quick fumble in a borrowed bedroom, a suburban shithouse, or a noirish alleyway, only occasionally going upmarket for a quick blowjob in someone’s Ute or family sedan with baby seat attached. Once I encountered a truckie, who was everything I ever dreamed of, until he took off his trousers to reveal he was wearing pantyhose.

No wonder then that last night I was running off at the mouth on meeting a gentleman of such proportion and charm that I was practically drooling. It was the occasion of a charmless party that I’d attended with mates Robbie and Viz. Unusually, none of us scored that night.

“There was no one there over 35,” I had moaned dramatically. Robbie and Viz in the back seat were indulging me, though not without a certain amount of eyes heavenward.

“And this was a problem why?” asked Robbie, the perfect straight man, in the theatrical sense and not in the sexual.

I put on my grandest voice. “It’s the same problem you will face one day when you realize you are no longer a Robbie and have become plain Rob, Bob or more pretentiously, Robert.”

He smiled. “Did that really answer my question?”

“There was a guy in the kitchen said he was 29, but he looked 40,” Viz said hopefully.

There was no stopping me. I was playing to the gallery. Actually to Robbie’s dad, known to me and Viz as Mr. Wardrop.

“Forty to me is like 12 in twink talk,” I said. “You should know that by now.”

Viz smirked. “So what is the age of consent for daddy lovers?”

I looked over at Mr. Wardrop and tried hard to ascertain his age. “I guess I’ll go as low as 45, if …” Damn! If only I had known Robbie’s dad was so hot I may have taken more interest and got strategic info, like his age.

“Cradle snatcher,” Robbie yelled.

I had been flirting outrageously with Mr. Wardrop since he turned up in response to our mayday message when we came out of the world’s most boring party to find our transport missing. Not stolen, but gone. Our driver, Gene, was notorious for dumping whoever he was with if a stray fuck presented itself. Obviously, it had and regardless of his protestations that he would not, he had stranded us. Problem: Too far out of town for a taxi, too early to get a lift with anyone else, and too close to curfew to take a chance. Solution: Call Robbie’s dad.

What a miserable party bunch we must have looked when he turned up. I was so pissed off I yanked the back door open and was clambering inside when his voice made me look up. “Let me guess. You must be Vincent.” He half-turned in the driver’s seat holding out a strong, masculine hand. His face was tanned and fit, and fucking gorgeous. I wanted to see more of him. So I elbowed Robbie out of the front seat and grabbed it myself.

And that’s why I was knocking at his front door. Alas, a very tired and disheveled Robbie answered.

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

“I thought it was a great day for a swim. Got to keep healthy. And your dad has a pool.”

“It’s ten after seven in the morning and it’s 52 degrees outside. The sun’s barely up.”

“Depends on whose son you’re talking about,” I said as I adjusted my package in expectation.

It went right over Robbie’s head, “And why are you wearing your togs stuck up your ass like that? You better come in, otherwise you’ll get arrested.”

He led me to the kitchen and put on the coffee.

“What drugs are you on?” he said, appraising my provocative swimwear.

I couldn’t help myself. “He’s fuckin’ gorgeous.” I was jumping up and down in my enthusiasm.

“Who is?”

“Your dad!” I screamed.

“Ewww!” Robbie grimaced. “I wouldn’t go there. Anyway he’s not even gay.”

Robbie and his elder sister, Kylie, had grown up dad-less after their parents had divorced when Robbie was five. There had been no contact until a few weeks before, when Robbie’s mother had announced she was running off with a young shoe salesman and that his dad would be back to help out with his college education in an effort to make up for all those years of invisibility. Robbie wasn’t sure he needed a dad cramping his lifestyle, especially now that he was stretching his sexual muscles.

“How do you know?” I was pouting.

“There are no Judy Garland, Barbra Streisand or Bette Midler albums or movies in his collection,” Robbie admitted.

“Shit!” Disappointment number one because I am and always will be a show queen. Are you beginning to grasp my problem here?