Just Like Your Old Man

Justin cautiously parked the car in the driveway, having nearly turned back twice already. He despised his father, the years of torture he and put on Justin's family after coming out and abandoning his wife and 9-year-old son. It had taken years of therapy for Justin to recover from the trauma his father had caused, years to correct the inadvertent homophobia he had unknowingly developed. And now, 25 years later, his father wanted to reconnect.

When he first got the letter, Justin had almost thrown the paper in the trash. He even considered burning it. But his girlfriend encouraged him to discuss the matter with his therapist, and the therapist encouraged him to reach out. The word “closure” was tossed around more times than Justin could count. To his disgust, his therapist challenged him to make the visit, even going as far to say it was his responsibility as an investigative journalist. And now here he was, hours from home parked in his father’s quaint, suburban expanse.

Gathering his courage, Justin exited his car. He trekked up the pavement, dreading each new step a little more. In moments he was knocking on the door, hoping and praying that his father would not be on the other side.

“Justin!” 

Justin grimaced at the lumberjack of a man towering before him, his father’s voice deeper and gruffer than he remembered. 6’5, covered in either more hair or more bulk. All the hair on his head was gone, now bored out into a horseshoe supported by a dense, graying beard. His face appeared rougher than Justin had imagined, wrinkled and leathery in a way he believed was not typical of a man only in his fifties. His father’s aging had not come gracefully, but he appeared proud of himself nonetheless.

As his father led him inside, Justin was thankful he had never grown up to be like him. Physically, Justin took after my mother. He was shorter, naturally thinner, and had kept his youthful glow even into his early thirties. He had nearly grabbed his curly pompadour at the door just to confirm that his hair was still there. His girlfriend had once joked that Justin was "delicate," and he had reminded her that delicate was better than paunchy. 

Walking through his father’s home, Justin realized their personal lives were very distinct. As if going for a certain aesthetic, his father’s house resembled a maximalist's hunting lodge. Deeply-colored woods, furniture with dark reds and evergreens, and even a flag with brown stripes and a bear paw. This highly countered Justin’s own greige apartment. The only thing similar between the two of them were their outfits, his father’s crusty white wifebeater and jeans complimenting Justin’s own denim and black tee. 

“Please, take a seat.” His father had led them out to the back patio, offering Justin one of the two chairs. Beside it was a table that appeared handmade, holding two cups and a liquor bottle with bourbon. His father poured him a glass, even though Justin really only drank beer. Once he had finished pouring, his father offered him a small black box engraved with the face of a bear.

“What’s in it?” Justin asked.

“A cigar, of course.” Another thing he hated about his father, the smoking habits. When Justin was younger, he once overheard his mother remarking that her husband had always loved his cigars more than women.

“I’m good,” Justin declined flatly. “I don’t smoke.”

“Oh c’mon, just have one.” His father opened the box to show him. “It’s high quality, expensive for this momentous occasion.”

Justin remained stoic, sticking to his front.

“It will help you loosen up a little,” his father persisted. “Don’t think I didn’t notice how tense you are.”

Huffing, Justin sluggishly reached out to accept his father’s gift. He knew he would hate it, but surrendering would stop his father from pushing the matter any further. If anything, it would at least get a good laugh from his girlfriend.

After taking the cigar out of its box, Justin leaned forward for his father to light the end. Hesitantly, he then put it into his mouth, allowing the smoke to plume into his system before exhaling it out. It had a full-bodied, earthy flavor, leathery in a way Justin had not expected. He rationalized that the cigars were partially responsible for his father’s aging, and partially responsible for why he had held off his own.

“You’re a natural,” his father smiled, pleased as Justin took another drag without coughing. Justin was quite surprised by how easy the cigar was to handle. “You're just like your old man.”

That line made Justin snap, “I’m nothing like my old man.”

The blow was quick, but his father barely flinched. Justin knew he had been rude but he would not let his father take credit for the man he had become. Instead of retreating however, his father actually engaged the conversation. “I would disagree, Justin.”

Humored, Justin sat back a little in his seat, gulping down a bit of the bourbon. The warmth perfectly accompanied the musky flavor of the cigar. “Really dad, how so?”

“You take after me quite a lot, actually,” he replied. “In fact, when I saw you at my door, it was like looking back at a reflection of me that day I left.”

Justin’s cheeks grew red, shocked that his father would be so bold. But instead of retorting, his hand surprisingly guided the cigar back to his mouth.

His father chuckled, “I know it’s been a while since I last saw your mom, but you couldn’t possibly think that height of yours came from her. Last I remember, all your uncles were under six feet.”

Justin shifted uncomfortably in his seat, propping out his legs further. He would never admit that his father was correct, but his mother’s genetics did only gift men either at or below average height. Justin’s own 6’2 did not compare to his father’s monstrous size, but it definitely confirmed there was a bit of his father in him.

“And those muscles,” his father noted. “Have you been working out?”

Justin opened his mouth to scoff, but found the cigar had been stuck back into his lips. Inhaling and puffing out, he cooly replied, “More like off-an-on manual labor.”

“That would explain your build, I suppose,” his father agreed. “Stacked but not conditioned, which shows real hard-earned strength. That muscle gut of yours oughta look like mine in due time.”

Justin nearly choked on his second sip of bourbon, despising his father for his continual comparisons. His muscles had come from hard work alone, nothing to do with genetics. The reason he had these thick, sturdy arms was from carrying metal pipes. His thick legs that filled out his jeans well, those came from squatting shipments and supporting the machinery. The Size 14 feet? Stomping around construction sites. His thick, calloused hands? Hours of hauling materials. 

So sure, Justin’s stomach may have become smoothened out into more of a curve, sometimes even bunching up his shirts underneath his tight pecs. The years of manual labor and hanging out with the fellas after hours may have stretched his lower torso taut, but it was nothing compared to the swollen ballgut his own father had.

“Guys with our frames were meant to be heavier, right?” his father stated. “In fact, knowing how similar we are, I’d bet you’ve started enjoying that bulk. Perhaps even indulging in it.”

Justin allowed another puff of smoke to melt down his throat. “Is it, um, that obvious?” he asked, slightly embarrassed this stranger was able to pick that up. Justin had started relaxing his diet a bit more, commonly accepting leftovers and offers to eat out. He had become quite skilled at out-drinking his opponents, something he had discovered was quite exhilarating. Countless memories Justin sliding his hand down into his unbuckled pants, groping his bulge after every instance of his dirty bulking suddenly appeared. The size and power thrilled him, excited him.

“Don’t worry son, it’s normal for guys like us.” His father heartily laughed and took a drag of his own cigar. “The hair loss is pretty typical too. How long do you think you’ll hold on before you just shave it all off?”

“Shave it?” 

“Well sure,” his father grunted. “Better than watching it all thin away.”

Justin assumed his father was correct. Every year since he was a teenager, it seemed like he was cutting his hair a bit shorter, little by little. It was now reduced to nothing more than a small peak, his sides sheared away just shy of a buzz.

“That’s what the beard is for anyway, huh?” his father joked. “It’s a compromise: the older we get, the more hair that falls off our heads and onto the rest of our bodies.”

With his other hand, Justin raised his glass in cheers before taking a swig of the bourbon. His father had been spot on. Justin had become quite the furry beast, with thick patches of hair sprouting all across his chest and carpets lining his arms and legs. His pits were jungles of their own, and he did not even bother trying to maintain the bush around his package. It was not like Justin had a girlfriend or anything to abide by any standards for.

“What do you think of that bourbon by the way?” his father asked, taking a sip from his own glass. “It’s my personal favorite.”

“Mine too,” Justin agreed behind a cloud of smoke. His voice had adopted a hoarser, huskier flavor akin to his father’s.

“And that cigar is doing wonders for you,” his father added, the choice of words confusing Justin momentarily. “What I mean is, you seem to really be enjoying it.”

“It’s something I probably got from you,” Justin admitted. “Loved cigars for as long as I can remember. Even started my own podcast on them on the side.” Justin nodded down to his chest, the name of his show branded proudly across his tight black tee.

His father grinned, placing his bourbon back on the table. With one hand, he guided his cigar back up to his lips, taking another long drag. He dug his other hand into his pants, fondling himself languidly. 

“Would you agree with me now, son? That you’re like your old man?”

Justin, unfazed by his father’s sudden indecency, pondered the question, watching as the smoke released from his cigar and his own lips.

“Yeah, I guess I am.”

His father then lowered his jeans, his thick, monstrous, 9-inch hairy dong flopping out.

“Would you say you’re just like your old man, son?” his father questioned.

Taking one last inhale of his delicious cigar, Justin placed his glass back onto the table. Justin then placed his cigar beside it before crawling between his father’s knees, his own giant cock throbbing and wet as well. Through careful actions, he opened his mouth and went down on the new thick cigar is father had presented to him, the musky smoke creating the perfect cloud around them.