Page 19 of Finding His Silver Fox Daddy

She sighed, pausing a minute before her real reason for calling came spilling out. “Tristan Applegate, are you still having sex on the internet?”

I choked back a laugh at my prim and proper mother speaking those words. Even better—the most satisfying response was also the most truthful one. “Of course. I love it; it’s who I am.” And I wasn’t going to fucking apologize for that to anyone, least of all the parents who never gave a shit about me.

“We raised you better than that.”

“No, Mother, you didn’t. In fact, you didn’t raise me at all.”

I could almost feel her bubbling rage reaching for me across the airwaves, but I knew she wouldn’t unleash it. It wasn’t polite. “Don’t talk to your mother like that. Your father was simply worried about you, and he asked me to check in.”

Worried that more of his friends would find out I was a sex worker, you mean. Or maybe they already had, and that was why she was calling? I was super proud of my profession, though, and that made me feel better. “You checked in, Mother. Your duty is done.”

“Tristan, do not act like a petulant child.”

I let out my laugh this time. “I’m not, Mother; I’m simply stating facts. Dad wanted to make sure I wasn’t embarrassing the family anymore, and as long as his friends aren’t online searching for young camboys, we’re probably okay on that front. Though if they do find out, maybe you both should think a little more seriously about the friends you have. Seems a little hypocritical that I would be banished for providing a necessary and welcome—not to mention legal—service but they wouldn’t be punished for monetarily supporting it. But then, that’s exactly what I’ve come to expect from you both. Have the day you deserve.”

Then I hung up the phone.

Two minutes of deep breathing later—Cameron had introduced me to yoga breathing over a year ago, and I was eternally grateful for that—I got off my bed, pulled on some gray mesh shorts, and went to start dinner. As the grilled cheese sandwich sizzled in the pan and tomato soup heated in the microwave, I cleared my mind of that horrific call and turned instead to contemplating my conversation with MrFox43.

It wasn’t too late at night to reply to him, but I figured I’d missed the window of reply time that was considered socially acceptable. And besides, if just talking about something more serious with the guy had me thinking about all the ways I’d been hurt in the past, how the hell could I explore a relationship with anyone? I was only good for sex and not love. My history with guys, as well as my infuriating parents, had all but proved that love wasn’t in the cards for me, anyway.

I was good at sex. It was a ton of fun, and though I hadn’t felt like doing it recently, I had my pick of guys to hook up with in person. And when I didn’t want to put forth that kind of effort, I made a lot of money doing it in front of a camera. I didn’t need love; sex was enough.

It was.

Really.

It was enough.

It should be enough.

Chapter seven

Henry

I’d stayed up way too late worrying about Substar last night, willing him to message me back. At some point, I’d even stalked him a little online, trying to figure out if he had any social media accounts. Aside from an impersonal page that seemed to basically work as a feeder to his cam site—and no new updates, anyway—the man was surprisingly not very active online. That shocked me. A guy in his twenties not online? I must have been missing something.

Then it hit me at about one am. His secret identity as a camboy wouldn’t be splashed all over his personal social media, whoever he was, so I wouldn’t be able to find him through his Daddy’s Boy handle. Of course. It took me an embarrassingly long time to realize that.

But tonight was Tuesday at Mix It Up, a night I always looked forward to. Tonight was the night that the Daddies and Subs Club met at my fine establishment. Not gonna lie, I was super proud to have created a safe space for a club like that to meet and talk about their shared interests without judgment. I still wished we had a kink club for our community, but that wasn’t my project to take on. Keeping Mix It Up profitable and its revenue steady and growing was a big enough job, and it was absolutely what I was put on this earth to do.

The Daddies and Subs Club, or DASC for short, had been meeting here since its inception. It had started about three years ago when the leader, Ethan, had approached me with the idea, looking for somewhere to meet. I was stoked to offer the newly opened space free of charge—they always bought drinks, anyway, so I came out ahead—but even more excited to have like-minded individuals in my company.

Of course, at the time, I only knew I was gay and was exploring what I liked—I hadn’t figured out I was a Daddy yet. I’d actually gone through a period of time when I’d thought I was a sub, given the way I seemed to always kowtow to Carl and often Carrie at various points in our marriage. Made logical sense, I’d thought at the time. I’d even scened with a few Doms but quickly realized I wanted to be on the other side of the whip, so to speak. Or literally, in the case of one Dom. I’d safeworded out of that shit so fast—that level of pain wasn’t my thing. But orgasm control and denial? Yes, please.

It was a confusing time.

My Daddy Dom realization came later, in actuality thanks to that club itself. Watching the Daddies—the good ones, anyway, there had been one or two bad apples—in that club every other Tuesday had sparked something in me, something I couldn’t ignore. And soon, I’d realized I wanted a boy of my own someday. Maybe even one I could command to withhold my orgasms . . . I shivered at the thought. That was fucking hot.

But even all that history—and the chance to reconnect with my now good friend Ethan—wasn’t why I got excited every other Tuesday lately. That was due to a certain someone who was a part of the Daddies and Subs Club, one who never missed a meeting.

Tristan Applegate.

The man had curly dark hair that he was forever flipping out of his face, but goddamn that worked for him. The light was always too dark in here to see his eyes, but they’d met mine a few times across the bar, and every time, they froze me in place. If I had to guess, I would’ve said they were a bright blue or hazel. And his mouth . . .

I was definitely not a creepy old man lusting after someone way younger than me, but I was still a gay man. And imagining that mouth—the one always cracking jokes, laughing with his friends, or just closed around a straw in his usual mai tai—on my dick was something I just couldn’t help.

Okay, sometimes I felt like a creepy old man. But some boys were into age gaps, right? So I might have a chance? In all the times he’d been here, I’d never seen him with anyone, so . . . maybe?