parked in the driveway. Chris noticed the tattoos, the soft muscles, the calves, the upper arms that he'd missed in the woods. Silvio came at him like a bull and he felt as though his knees were made of clay. He could see the shape, which swayed beneath the silk like fabric unencumbered by underwear. It looked thick, but not as threatening as it had.

"You changed clothes" Christoff grinned. "We have to be quiet. I don't want to wake my roommate." He hoped his father wouldn't come out of his bedroom or if he was watching TV in the den that he'd stay folded up on the sofa out of sight as he generally did. Chris wasn't even sure why he wanted to hide the fact that he lived with his dad, or why he'd wanted to take the best way home, other than it seemed practical. What if Silvio wanted to come back for a beer, or watch a game? "I'd tell him the truth then."

He fumbled for the key and clicked the three locks. Silvio held a phone and charger "it should only take half an hour. After that I can check to see if my girlfriend left a message." The volume of his voice had dropped to communicate the need of the situation. "You got anything to drink,” he said calmly as if coming to another guys house to charge a cell phone in court shorts with a semi erect cock was an everyday event.

"I'll get us a couple of beers from the kitchen. You wait upstairs. Sorry there's not really any privacy up there except for in the bathroom, um if you need to make a call." Christoff watched as his guest made it half way up to the bedroom loft, contemplating the word privacy perhaps. He hadn't really needed any privacy because he hadn't had anyone over, and the girls he'd dated tended to have their own places. Having their own place was something of a prerequisite for him since the idea was to spend as much time out of his father's house as possible. When the lectures about his screwed up past became too much, a bedroom with no walls wasn't sufficient. His father was famous for throwing curses up from the center of the living room. For the most part, his dad was right. When Christoff didn't have his share of the rent it created friction. If the rent was paid, his dad didn't care who he brought over. Though he never talked about it, his father wasn't stupid. There may have been problems in the short-term memory department, but the past was something he was crystal clear on. Any male company coming to the house became suspect.

Christoff asked for a beer when he passed through the den. "Whatever boy, leave me alone." He looked at his father sometimes and loved him more than anything in the world. Occasionally he'd watch him sleeping in front of the television after the late night Oprah rebroadcast, or some old movie. The lines of his face told a story and Christoff knew exactly what he'd look like as an older man himself simply by the way his father had grown.

He moved in and kissed his dad on the forehead. "Who you got up there?"

"No one. Just a friend" he waited.

"Well don't you and your friend drink all my shit, and turn that light off in the hall."

Christoff flipped the switch. His father