tearoom dad

I graduated from high school in 1979. My parents divorced when I was in the second grade and Dad moved away to a larger city a couple of hundred miles away. I saw him occasionally but only when he came for short visits. I never went to his house. That summer, my mom was finally going to marry her longtime boyfriend, a certified SOB, and everyone knew that it would be a disaster if he and I lived under the same roof. It was decided that I would live with my father for the summer and then start college in the fall. I don't remember whose idea it was for me to move in with Dad but it was wonderful.

I had known forever that I was gay and had become quite a proficient practitioner. I had obtained an exhaustive and thoroughly enjoyable education in all things sexual in the restrooms of the local shopping malls and the public library. There were several excellent and well-used glory holes. I loved my studies and I was a diligent student.

Although the first few days at Dad's house were a bit tense, I knew it would all work out when he told me he didn't mind if I smoked. Mom hated it, her SOB boyfriend preached to me about it, and Mom made me go outside to smoke, even in winter. Dad didn't mind. He even smoked occasionally. I don't think he liked smoking so much, he just thought it looked cool. He bummed a cigarette from me once but turned up his nose when he saw that it was a Salem. He didn't like menthol but he smoked it anyway.