Chapter 1

Ryan

I slumbered in peaceful oblivion, dreaming about sunning my oiled body on a tropical island with waving palm trees and a crystal clear ocean. The sun warmed my tanned skin while I counted the sparse clouds drifting through the sky. An attractive Latino man named Hernando, clad only in a skimpy thong that barely covered his tropical banana, brought me a piña colada.

Hola, Señor Keller. You look muy guapo.” His smile was sly and seductive as he put down my drink.

“Hernando, did you just call me fat?” I pinched the skin around my abdomen to see if it had expanded.

Hernando shook his head and rubbed his hand over his face. “No, Señor Keller. Fat is gordo; guapo means handsome. If you’re going to have dreams about Latino men, at least know the language.”

Hernando walked away, muttering something in Spanish I couldn’t understand and probably didn’t want to anyway. I casually sipped my drink from the coconut shell it came in when I saw another man running down the beach. He was tall with unruly brown hair that flew in the wind as he jogged across the white sand. His broad chest glistened with sweat in the sun. He wore nothing but a string of palm leaves wrapped around his waist, which made me wonder if I missed a fashion trend. He slowed his pace and looked high up a palm tree standing tall toward the edge of the dense vegetation of the inner island. I became mesmerized as he chewed his lip, appearing in deep thought. Sipping my cocktail, I squinted in confusion as he started to shake the base of the tree trunk. The man’s muscles were sinewy and tense as he pushed and pulled at the rough bark. Finally, he jumped out of the way, and several coconuts fell to the ground. He bent to the ground and picked one up. From behind him, he pulled a machete, which I had just noticed was strapped to his back. With three powerful chops, he cracked open the coconut with his Herculean strength.

With his prize before him, the man smiled, brought the fruit up to his lips, and took a drink of the sweet water hidden inside. Some of the liquid dripped past his lips, down his neck, and poured down his ripped chest in rivulets. I watched every drop like it was the last liquid on earth. My mouth watered, but not from thirst—it was from watching this magnificent wild beast in front of me.

He finally eyed me lounging on my hammock under the cabana. Slowly, he gracefully walked toward me.

“Why, hello there, stranger. What brings you to my enchanted tiki island?” He smiled, revealing a perfect set of white teeth.

“This is my dream, and you were created from my subconscious for the purpose of giving ultimate guilty pleasures. I do believe that will come in the form of a blow job, strange man.” I pointed to my crotch.

A wicked smirk graced his beautiful mouth as he dropped to his knees; the palm leaf covering his crotch started to lift. It kept rising, and before I could do anything, a three-foot dick stood before me. My eyes grew large, probably to accommodate the enormous dick. I lifted my hand to touch my jaw, which started to ache at the prospect of returning the blow job pleasure.

Not believing my good luck, I stood up from my hammock, preparing for this man’s luscious mouth. A quick gleam in his eye turned his whole face sinister and dark. Tropical tiki man opened his mouth, revealing fangs and hissing like a snake. The beautiful island faded into dark night as clouds covered the sky, blocking out the sun. A volcano, which seemed to appear out of thin air, erupted fiery lava high into the sky. What before could only have been described as a tranquil beach had turned into the pits of hell. Tiki man’s face, still sexy as sin with his new fangs, looked more devilish than ever. He cracked his knuckles, and I noticed his fingernails had turned into fifteen-inch-long talons. They were painted purple with little flowers painted on them. I cocked my head to the side. Before he killed me, I would have to ask where on this island he got those done because if I survived this, I’d be in need of a pedicure.

“I will suck your insides out through your penis, and all that will be left is your outside shell, which I will use to make a costume to win Project Runway.” He released a hearty laugh, which shook the ground beneath me.

“Can you at least do something fabulous with it? Maybe a vest or an ascot? And my skin tone does not look good with pale yellows. I tend to do better with maroon colors.”

I almost crapped in my Calvin Klein swim trunks when the beast dug its nails into my swimwear and tore it off with one pull. His eyes widened when he discovered what lay beneath my trunks. My dick had morphed into the longest and shiniest of gallant medieval swords known to mankind. Somehow, I knew that—I don’t know how, but I did. The hard steel was my own Excalibur. I was both delighted and horrified that I had a sword for a dick, but how cool was that?

“Behold, weird tiki man! Excalibur will slash you when you blow me.”

I swung my hips, and my dick sword flew into action, slicing one of the tiki man’s talons off.

“How dare you? That manicure cost me thirty Matt Dillon coins,” he said as fire flared from his nose. Of course currency in my dream would be named after some delicious man. I went to swing my hips again when tiki man caught my dick sword, which I just named Sir Lance-a-lot-of-men, into his grasp.

He bared his teeth and hissed between the gaps of his fangs, “Still looking for that blow job?” Then he sank the daggers of his teeth into the blade.

I felt sudden pain shoot up my groin and through my entire body. I was sure that weird tiki man had bitten off my Excalibur, but I opened my eyes to see a tiny face staring into mine. His brown eyes twinkled in the early morning sunlight that seeped between the slats of the blinds. His chocolate-colored hair pointed in all directions, and he giggled.

“Dude, you just kneed me in the junk,” I moaned as I threw my arm over my face to block the light.

“Sorry, Daddy,” he said in a voice that sounded like tiny birds.

I lifted my arm off my head. “If you tell me that I’m your favorite daddy, I might forgive you. If not, I will subject you to the most foul punishment.”

“What?” He crawled up my body, firmly holding onto his favorite stuffed animal, a rabbit named Bun Bun.

“You will be punished with death breath.”

“Eww!” he screeched.

“I would say it, Ethan,” Brandon mumbled next to us. “I’ve had that punishment before, and it nearly knocked me dead.”

“You my favorite! You my favorite!” Ethan chanted.

I sat up in bed, wrapped my son up in my arms, and then dropped him in my lap. “I don’t think I believe you. This might call for the tickle torture.”

“Noooo!” Ethan shrilled and crumpled into a wiggly ball. He laughed and begged me to stop, but I, of course, ignored his plea and tickled him more. He was soon out of breath from laughing, and I decided he’d suffered enough.

“Again,” he said.

“I don’t think so. Daddy already expended all the energy he had. I need coffee before I can deal with your insanity. Go pick out some clothes to wear today.” I lifted his little frame off the bed and set him on the ground. He scurried to his room while I tried to figure out where this kid got so much energy this early in the morning. I flopped back on the bed, exhausted already.

“You know he’s going to go around and call his penis junk from now on.”

I looked at the man lying next to me. He had one eye open as he squinted the night’s sleep away. He couldn’t be more adorable in the mornings—a day’s worth of stubble covered his hard jaw and a tiny smile was placed on his soft, pink lips. Every day I woke up to Brandon was another day he stole another piece of my soul. My husband was all I ever needed and wanted. Besides our son, of course.

I ran my hand through his dark, tousled locks. Gray hairs peppered his sideburns and temples. He teased that he was going to start dyeing it, but I told him that it made him look distinguished and I could call him my sugar daddy. He closed his eye again and hummed quietly as I massaged his scalp. I leaned over, planted a kiss on his cheek, and then cuddled close to his body. I felt that familiar pull of need and want in my stomach. My blood quickly rushed from my head straight down to my groin. I started to shamelessly hump his thigh, and his eyes quickly popped open.

“Don’t start what we can’t finish.”

“Who says we can’t finish?” My erection was so hard it hurt.

“Because kids are somehow born with a weird sense of knowing when their parents are going to get it on. They save that time to have an accident or what they think is a life-threatening emergency, like a hangnail.”

“All I need is five minutes. Can’t we get a dog crate and stuff him in there? I’ll even throw in some Cheerios for good measure.” I nuzzled my face into the crook on his neck and dotted his skin with kisses.

And as if he knew he was being talked about, Ethan blew back into the room like a hurricane. “Done. I’m hungry,” he said as he rubbed his little tummy.

“Go make yourself some pancakes. You’re four years old; that’s old enough to use the stove. Just throw baking soda on it if anything catches fire and then call 911.”

“Daddyyyyyyy,” Ethan whined.

I lifted my head out of my hidey-hole of Brandon’s neck to look at our son pouting next to the bed.

“Daddy, why is there a banana in your underpants?”

I looked down to see my erection straining against my boxer briefs “Well, son, this is what happens to men when they wake up. It’s called—” Brandon playfully smacked my arm and shook his head disapprovingly. Apparently, it wasn’t the right time to give Ethan a lecture on how the male anatomy worked. “Yes, Ethan, it’s a banana. I thought I might get hungry in the middle of the night and put it there for safekeeping.”

“Can I sleep with a banana?”

“Son, I promise when you’re older, you’ll have a whole bunch of bananas in there. What are you wearing?” I asked, trying to change the topic away from my banana.

“I got dressed.” He twirled around, showing me his fashion choice. He had put a T-shirt and a pair of shorts on over his pajamas.

Brandon added, “I give you a ten for picking out a reasonable fashion choice, but a negative thirty for execution.”

“Papa!” Ethan giggled.

When our surrogate was pregnant with Ethan, Brandon and I had a long discussion about what Ethan would call each of us. I wanted to go with something dramatic like Papa Skillet Homefry for me and Daddy-O for Brandon, but Brandon thought it would be a little too excessive. So we went the more traditional route and stuck with Papa and Daddy. One day when Ethan got older, I figured calling me Daddy would turn old and that would be when I could get away with something creative. We also had to decide as a couple which one of us would be Ethan’s biological father. It was important for me to have Brandon be the biological father to our first child. Because of Brandon’s abusive past with his own parents, I wanted him to have that particular bond with our firstborn that he never got to experience for himself. Our surrogate, Quinn, carried Ethan for us, and thankfully, it was an uneventful pregnancy. Although I believed I put on at least twenty pounds in sympathy weight.

A vibration came from Brandon’s nightstand. This early meant someone was in labor. Brandon had had a joint OB-GYN practice for the past five years, and hearing that familiar buzzing had become my nemesis. There were many times that thing would go off in the middle of the night or when we were having sex. I’d had thoughts of sticking it up my ass when it went off. Then I wouldn’t have to listen to it and it would bring me immense enjoyment and pleasure. Win-win for everyone.

Brandon pushed me away and picked up his glasses from the nightstand to read the number on his. I inwardly slumped because I knew what was coming.

“Gotta go in.” He sighed and got out of bed.

“Seriously? It’s Saturday. Can’t the woman just cross her legs and keep the baby inside until Monday?”

“Yeah, because that’s how it works. I’ll just call the hospital back and tell them that my husband told her to squeeze it in until weekday hours.”

“It feels like that thing is going off every second.”

“It’s part of being a doctor with his own practice, Ry. We’ve talked about this.”

And we had, at length, way too many times to count. Three months ago, the doctor Brandon shared his practice with moved out of state. Instead of searching for someone to replace him, Brandon wanted to run the practice alone. I questioned this, but Brandon said he felt confident he would be able to handle it all.

I would get frustrated when Brandon had to go in at crazy hours, and he would argue back that this was the life of a doctor and his patients expected the best and that was what he wanted to provide for them. That would be when things got heated and I’d throw the whole “Well, don’t your son and husband deserve the best?” speech and we would fire words back and forth. The argument usually died or was interrupted by Ethan until the next time something like it happened again, and then we’d end up with the same vicious circle.

“Papa, don’t go.” Ethan ran to Brandon’s side of the bed, stuck out his bottom lip, and displayed his huge puppy dog eyes. The kid had the pout routine down. I should know because I was the one who had taught him. It was Brandon’s kryptonite.

Brandon rolled out of bed and leaned over his knees to look Ethan in the eye. “Aw, don’t look at me like that, little dude. This shouldn’t be long, promise. Then we can spend the afternoon going to the zoo, okay?”

“Yay! I like seeing the bamboos like when Grandpa and Papa where here,” Ethan said, clapping, but then his face looked puzzled. “Papa, where is your mommy and daddy?”

“In the bamboo cage, too,” I said, apparently a little too loudly.

Brandon whipped his head around and scowled.

I threw the covers over my head in order to hide, but I knew I would get an earful about it later. There was no love lost on my part for Brandon’s parents. He hadn’t seen his mother since leaving for college, and as far as we knew, his homophobic prick of a father still lived back home in Iowa. Brandon had spent years being abused by his father. When we were in college, his father hunted Brandon down for money, and when Brandon told him to fuck off, he beat the living daylights out of his son. The fucker went to jail, but not for nearly as long as he should have.

I peeked out of the covers to see Brandon giving Ethan a kiss on the head and a tight hug. It broke Brandon’s heart when he had to leave us on his day off, but that was the life of a doctor. Brandon went into our bathroom to get ready, and Ethan came around to my side of the bed.

“Feed me,” he squeaked.

“Excuse me? When did I become your servant?”

“The day he was born!” Brandon yelled from the bathroom.

I sighed and rubbed my face, trying to get rid of the remnants of sleep. I threw back the covers and got out of bed to cater to my son’s demands.

“Yay!” he yelled as he ran out of the room. “I’m going to get a banana and practice putting it in my underwear.”

I grabbed my own banana, wishing my big gorilla of a husband didn’t have to go to work.