Love Your Mommy and Daddy: Breeding the Biggest, Juiciest, Heftiest ‘Daddy Ass’ Rewired My Baby Queer Brain.
Move over, dad bods. It’s time to talk about Daddy Asses.
This essay is part of the “Love Your Mommy and Daddy” series, where writers share times they fucked people their parents’ age. Read the last installment here. If you are interested in submitting, please read the Boyslut zine submission guidelines.
Breeding the Biggest, Juiciest, Heftiest ‘Daddy Ass’ Rewired My Baby Queer Brain
We often talk about how sexy dad bods are, but we don’t talk about my favorite part of a dad bod: A Daddy Ass. See, when most men get a little older and add some meat to their bones, it doesn’t just go to their chest and belly; it goes all over, including their booty. So many Daddies in their fifties and sixties have a shockingly massive rear end.
While the Daddy Ass (trademark pending) is a common phenomenon among older men, it’s not one that’s frequently discussed. Frankly, I may be the first to break this hard-hitting news and expect a Pulitzer for my contribution to the field of journalism.
But I first discovered Daddy AssesTM about seven years ago when visiting my uncle in Portland, Oregon. This uncle also happens to be my writing mentor, meaning he has read nearly all of my work and knows way more about me than any family member should. The silver lining is that I don’t have to lie to him. When he asks me how my night out was, I can look him in the eyes and say, “I just hopped around from one Grindr guy to the next fucking different dudes all night.”
He then responds, “I’m glad you’re getting to see all that Portland has to offer.”
On one of my nights exploring Portland’s offerings, I found myself at the apartment of a man in his early sixties. From his photos, I could tell two things about him. First, he was not a young-looking sixty-something. He may have been lying about his age. Second, he was still quite handsome. He gave Ed Harris vibes—each wrinkle made him hotter.
But to be honest, I didn’t stroll up to his apartment wearing an uncomfortably tight jockstrap underneath my jeans for his handsome face; I was there for his dick. It seemed giant in his Grindr photos, and he wasn’t using light or angles to his advantage. The pics were straight-on and included his entire body and face. He had a girthy dick with a big ol’ mushroom for a head. It was veiny (which is now something I’m into, thanks to his cock).
I didn’t know what I thought I was going to do with his monster schlong. This was seven years ago, well before my anus became the black hole it is today and before I liked gagging on dicks to the point of near death. Still, even baby Zach knew I needed to see it, to experience it. Then, like in movies with “the chosen one,” I would miraculously know what to do when the time was right.
When I got to his apartment, he opened his door barefoot, wearing a mishmash of gay aesthetics. My eyes were first drawn to his gray sweatpants—more accurately, what was underneath his sweatpants. He was not wearing underwear, and I could see his very pronounced VPL (visible penis line).
I couldn’t stop shamelessly staring. The man knew what he was doing. Gray sweatpants are crack to faggots like myself, and he was free-balling it? He was letting his anaconda breathe, and apparently, that snake needed a lot of air.
When I finally managed to break free from the sweatpants’ spell, I didn’t know where to look. I couldn’t look into his eyes because he was wearing reflective Aviators, which, yes, was weird to wear inside and even weirder to wear while opening a door for a Grindr fuck. However, it went with his black leather harness and Tom of Finland officer cap.
I settled on looking at his bronzed bare chest, which was freckled with a fake tan. He used to have his nipples pierced with some big ol’ rings, or perhaps he used to hang weights from his areolas because his nips were sagging. I am obsessed with this aesthetic. There is a group of older gay men with the saggiest fucking nipples from years of wearing heavy nipple rings. I hope to join this esteemed group one day, which is why I have been gauging my nipples with larger piercings for years.
He said, “Hey, come in,” in a deep voice, nearly shaking the ground beneath us. I walked through the doorframe, and he shut the door behind me.
“Do you want some wine?” he asked. This time, the ground did shake.
Wine? I thought to myself. Given his voice and how he was dressed, I assumed he would offer me bourbon.
“Please,” I said, despite wine being the only liquor I (typically) don’t drink.
He turned around to head to his wine fridge, and that—that—was when I made the most influential discovery of the past century. His ass was enormous. Gargantuan. Monumental. Wars had been fought over the ass. Men had died. Good men.
And those poor gray sweatpants. They must have been in such pain, stretched far beyond their limit. Sure, gray sweatpants are designed to be stretchy, to have give. But they were not made for asses of this caliber. How he got his ass into those sweats is a mystery even the most intrepid journalists are too afraid to solve.
My brain started short-circuiting. His ass, voice, fashion choices, and VPL were too much for a baby queer, such as myself, to handle. I chugged the wine and asked for more.
“Somebody’s thirsty,” he said.
Yes. Yes I was.
“You’re a very handsome man,” he said. “Do you work out?”
“I do,” I said.
“Yeah, me too.” He then opened his phone to show me a photo of him from two and a half decades ago. It took him half a second to find the picture, meaning he showed it to multiple men multiple times a week.
He was jacked—made-up muscles jacked. Watermelon-smashing quads jacked. Biceps so large you can’t scratch your head jacked.
“Holy shit,” I said.
Yeah,” he replied. “I know. Steroids worked wonders.”
He proceeded to tell me that I should start steroids. While I was in great shape, I wasn’t 200 pounds, and I really wanted to be in the 200-pound club. “It’s a game changer,” he said.
“I believe it,” I replied.
“But you really don’t need it,” he reassured me. I just needed to add a little definition to my biceps...and triceps. And since I was going to work on that, I might as well flesh out my shoulders and make my chest pop. And since I didn’t want to become too top-heavy, I should also focus on bulking up my quads, thighs, and calves. “Then finish with squats. You can’t be a gay man without a big ass.”
I stared at his ass. There was no way “finishing with squats” was how he got that leviathan. It was a genetic mutation.
I asked for another glass of wine. I needed to calm down—but between his critiquing of my body and being overwhelmed by his body, I couldn’t stop my mind from racing.
Eye on the prize, I thought to myself as he poured me another glass. Well, prizes.
Then I remembered that his profile was all about being a Dom top. Absolutely fucking not. Yes, I wanted his dick—it was a beautiful dick—but I knew there would be other penises like his. His ass? That was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.
“Do you only top?” I asked. He said he used to bottom a lot more when he was younger, but these days, he exclusively tops. (It’s a strange phenomenon in gay men: Bottoms turning into tops as they age or become wealthy.)
“Well, I would love to fuck you.”
“Yeah, you and everyone else,” he chuckled.
“Let me rephrase that,” I replied. “I need to fuck you.” The wine was hitting.
I stared into his eyes…or his aviators. While I couldn’t see his full expression, I knew he was looking back at me and carefully choosing his next words.
“You can try,” he eventually replied.
I stood up. Sure, I wasn’t 200 pounds, but I had height. And the closer I am to you, the more salient my height becomes. At this moment, height was all I had to convey my dominance. He took off his sunglasses and placed them on the counter beside him. He then lunged toward me, grabbing me by the neck, and shoved his tongue down my throat. Objectively, the kissing was bad. Too much spit. Too much tongue. Our teeth were clacking against each other, but it was passionate and animalistic—Daddy/son lust.
I saw him beginning to pitch a tent. I moved my hand from his abs to underneath his waistband and squeezed his cock. He let out a growl. With my other hand, I grabbed his ass. At first, over his sweats but then underneath.
His ass was muscular—but still had jiggle. His skin was a little loose. Was it possible his ass was actually larger? Within seconds of holding his front and backside in my hands, my dick shot up. I went to his finger his asshole, but he grabbed my hand and pulled it away.
This was me trying—and failing.
“Follow me,” he said and walked into his bedroom. I followed and quickly stripped down. I was nude and erect. He took everything off, excluding his harness. We stood facing each other, only our hard dicks touching one another.
“Suck it,” he said. I dropped to my knees. I started slowly, looking up at him as I licked up and down his shaft. I knew he wasn’t a patient man, and this was torture. I gave his head a gentle kiss before I opened my mouth wide and clamped my wet lips down on his head. He let out a moan. I sucked his head and only his head. I knew he wanted deeper, but I liked not giving him what he wanted. He put his hand on the back of my head and tried to push me down to envelope him whole, but I quickly brushed his hands off. I would deepthroat his dick—of course, I would—but I had to be the one to do it. This was all about power and dominance, and even though I was on my knees, I needed to be in control.
I slowly started sucking past his head. Each time just a centimeter more and more until I felt my throat open and knew I was ready. I took all of him in my mouth, and he barked, “Woof.” He grabbed the back of my head, and I let him this time. He started pumping up and down my throat. I didn’t know whose dick was harder, mine or his. When I began to gag, he said, “Yeah, take it, boy.”
When he finally let me up for air, spit was everywhere. He was winning the battle for dominance, but I loved every moment. So was he really winning?
“Lay down,” I said. “And grab the lube.”
There’s no nerve in your mouth that connects to your asshole. I know this. But sometimes, when I’m sucking dick, my asshole loosens. I crave dick so badly that my body opens up for me without my needing to prepare.
I went into full porn star mode as I rode him in cowgirl. I tilted back, and my hard dick smacked against my flexed abs with each bounce. I alternated between fast and slow, and when I went slow, I would clench as my anus hit that highly sensitive area where the shaft meets the head.
When I turned around and sat down in reverse cowgirl, my hairy ass in his face, he lost it. He held my hips and thrusted hard, snarling like a wolf. I shrieked as his dick pushed deeper and deeper inside of me.
But then he did something stupid. He tuckered himself out. Youth was on my side.
“Flip over,” I said. He was too tired to keep topping but hadn’t cum and was still horny. Bottoming was the only way. I saw the cogs turning in his brain. While I’ll never know what he was thinking, I remember that without saying a word, he eventually turned around.
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