When I was a teenager I had the biggest crush on my dad. I guess that's only natural, because Dad was handsome, smart, and, in the vernacular of the times, "macho." Women always flirted with him outrageously, and I think he bedded quite a few in his time. He had wavy, jet black hair, twinkling blue eyes, and a devil may care grin that women found irresistible. So did I. He was a sexy man who enjoyed his own body. He'd usually go around the house wearing nothing but white briefs, showing off his muscular, olive-skinned physique. I'd stare at him enviously, admiring the way the hair on his chest narrowed to a thin line over his stomach, dipping down into the waistband of his underwear. In a couple of years, I hoped, I'd look just like him. He worked nights when I was in high school, and he'd be at home when I arrived from school. Once in a while I'd wander into his bedroom for a man to man talk...those were the times I'd treasure. Dad liked to take a shower at about three o'clock every afternoon, and that's always the time I'd pick to visit him. So I could see him naked. I'd sit on his bed while he showered, leaving the bathroom door open so we could talk. The doors of the shower were clear glass, and I could see every glorious inch of Dad as he soaped himself up in the hot shower, lovingly caressing himself with soapy hands...his muscular pecs, flat stomach, hairy underarms. He'd spend a lot of time on his hairy crotch bush, too, soaping it up repeatedly as we chatted about the events of the day. Dad's cock was not long, but it was as thick around as a can of soda and he'd pull it between his slippery fingers, palming his big, hairy balls at the same time. Then he'd turn and soap up his flat, hard butt, separating the cheeks to get it clean. There was hair in his crack, surrounding his pink ass ring, and he'd push a finger up into himself quickly to get that squeaky clean as well. I'd sit on the bed, watching him hungrily, my own cock aching and straining in my jeans. I'd never let him see that, I vowed, but I think he knew that I loved his body. His showers were long and luxurious, and when the steam fogged up the clear glass, he'd wipe it away so it wouldn't obstruct my view of him. Our eyes never met. When the shower was over, he'd emerge, gleaming and wet and stand in the bathroom with a fluffy towel. Then he'd proceed to dry himself off. He was thorough, and he'd spend a lot of time drying off his hairy crotch area, his cock and balls bouncing over the towel as we talked. Then he'd turn away from me, raise one leg and balance one foot on the edge of the tub while he dried his buttocks and between. This always gave me a clear view of his spread ass. He'd bend over as far as he could in this position, to dry his feet. My hardon raged inside my tight pants. Then he'd stroll into the bedroom, walk over to me in all his naked glory and squeeze my shoulder. He'd patroll the bedroom, continuing the conversation, until finally, he'd open the dresser drawer and retrieve a fresh set of underwear. He'd slip them on and exit the room, going into the kitchen to fix us something to eat. I'd cross the hall to my own bathroom, where I'd sit on the toilet, rip down my fly and pound my aching prick until floods of hot sticky fluid spurted into the wad of tissues I had waiting in my other hand.
