Harrison Kelso has always harbored the suspicion that his father is gay. Why? Well, for one thing the elder Kelso had been in the Navy. That, in Harrison's considered opinion, said quite a bit. For another, he had the name of his "Navy buddy" (a pretty euphemism, Harrison thought) tattooed on his ass-cheek. Not his arm, not his chest, not any other innocuous body part. His ass-cheek. Even more incriminating was his father's behavior towards women. Over the years, it has gone from being aptly labeled horny to insatiable to the category Harrison dubs "over-compensating wildly" for lack of a better phrase.
Harrison runs over these facts in his mind from time to time. On this particular morning, he wakes up a little too early to get out of bed. No one else he knows is awake at this hour… except his father. Come to think of it, his father was in the dream that had just woken him. He lays back for a few minutes, trying to recall the details. Still thinking about his dream, he reaches for the phone, somewhere on the floor beside his mattress, and after a moment's worth of groping magazines and dirty socks, he finds it and dials.
"Hello?" The gruff voice on the other end of the phone line sounds annoyed.
"Hi, Dad," Harrison responds. The annoyance isn't at him, anyway, and he knows it.
"Oh, hello, son," Bob Kelso tries his hardest to sound a little more pleasant than usual for his son. "What can I do for you?"
"I dunno," Harrison mumbles. "How're things?"
This is all the invitation Bob Kelso needs to launch into his usual rhetoric – the hospital is hellish, the staff are incompetent, no one respects him enough anymore, the weather isn't right for golf. The list goes on and on.
"…so I told him that Bob Kelso doesn't give a crap about his stupid…"
Only one word – sometimes just a noise inserted into the correct pause – and he'll keep talking.
"Mmhm," Harrison breathes the acknowledgment just as he's thinking that his jeans are uncomfortably tight and allowing his hand to drift and unbutton them. And then, if his hand drifts only a little further – and why not? So he wraps his hand around his half-firm cock and moves to find just the right rhythm, and hopes that his father won't somehow notice.
Bob Kelso keeps talking; Harrison keeps pumping his hand up and down, his grip getting a little tighter, keeps rocking his hips, bringing himself closer and closer.
"Son? Son? Are you listening to me?"
"Wha – yeah, sorry, Dad. I guess I just wanted to hear your voice," Harrison stammers, his voice catching somewhere in his throat. "I kind of… miss you."
It's almost a question, as if he's asking for it to be alright. There's a pause on the other end of the line as Harrison finishes and lets out a soft, almost inaudible sigh.
"I love you, son," Bob Kelso says finally.
"I love you, too, Dad."