An unexpected hookup, a magic word, and the strange psychology of age-play

This article by Kevin Moroso was originally published in Xtra Magazine as part of the Filling Station column.

It was just going to be another hookup. He was more than 10 years my junior, with dark hair but pale skin. We didn’t chat much online beforehand; it was pretty straightforward: I top, he bottoms, all bareback. 

Jacob was just as cute as his profile pics when he arrived, though very shy, and we went straight into the bedroom. I pinned him down, stripped off his clothes, made out for a while, then flipped his legs up over my shoulders and began to fuck him. I looked down on him, his eyes shut, as he moaned — I figured my cock was doing the trick. He didn’t say anything until, after about four minutes, he blurted out, “Yes daddy.” My eyes widened.

I continued to fuck him and, for some reason, those words hadn’t made me soft. In fact, the words “yes son” kept running through my head until I finally came. He got dressed and left.

I’d heard younger homos call older guys “daddy” before. But it generally didn’t seem like a fetish. I always saw it as akin to calling someone a bear, an otter, a cub or a twink. It was simply a playful word used to describe an older guy in the gay scene. 

I’d only ever been called daddy once before. It was by a flirtatious younger guy I knew out on the scene. It had actually made me deeply uncomfortable because he was into me sexually as well — what am I, some pervert into incest and kids? I don’t think so. 

But for some reason, I didn’t feel that discomfort with Jacob. A couple of weeks later, I received a text while I was out shopping. Jacob wanted to come over again. We arranged it for a couple of hours later. But I had to ask him one more thing. 

“So, you know that word you called me last time during sex?” I texted him.

He replied that he was really embarrassed about it. I told him, “No, please don’t be embarrassed. Actually, I was wondering if you could call me that some more this time.” He replied with a smiley face and “YES!” 

It seemed obvious that it was a fetish he didn’t like to be open about it, but now that the cat was out of the bag and I was into it, he was excited.

He called me daddy a few times as we had sex. I was starting to kind of like it but I still wasn’t sure this was a fetish of mine yet. Unfortunately, that was the last time we hooked up, so I wasn’t to figure that out for a while.

Around a year later, I started chatting with a younger guy on an app, and I mean younger — 18! I don’t think I’d hooked up with anyone that young since, well, I was that young. 

Our first hookup almost didn’t happen. We had arranged a time for me to come over after work and I texted him when I was about to leave. The boy asked if I could bring over lube and condoms. I told him I had lube on me but that I don’t use condoms. He told me he always uses condoms the first time if he doesn’t know a guy. Usually that would put a stop to any potential meetup for me but, for some reason, I still wanted to see this boy. Maybe it was because I was super horny at the time, or maybe it was because I was excited to meet up with an 18 year old. So I told the boy I could come over and we could have some fun, just no anal, and he was up for it.

I got to the boy’s home about 30 minutes later and we went into his bedroom. He was a chipper little guy. Skinny, milky white, shorter than me, rosy cheeks, a big smile, and funky dyed hair. We made out, got naked, and started to suck each other off.  At one point, I held him down with my hand gently around his neck. The boy moaned. So I decided to squeeze a little harder. The boy moaned louder. This was a kinky little guy!

I smacked his butt. The boy moaned. So I started spanking him harder and his moans got louder. After a little while, we both came. “I noticed you seem to like it a bit rough,” I said. He grinned and nodded. I told him he needed to come to my place next time — I’ve got quite the toy collection I could use on him. He was very pleased.

Over the next couple of days, I probed him a bit more by text to see what he was into. Getting tied up? Check. Getting gagged? Check. Getting spanked and flogged? Check. Me pumping him full of cum? Check. The boy came over another couple of times and, oh my, could that kid take a beating. His milky white skin turned bright red every time. 

Then one time, as we lay naked in my bed, me spooning him, he turned his head around and asked me what he should call me. I flipped the question around and asked him what he thinks I’d like to be called. It was about to turn into 20 questions. Master? Ya, that would be okay — can you think of anything else? Sir? Sure, that’s okay — can you think of anything else? His eyes widened and with inflection and a big smile, he asked, “Daddy?” 

“That’s a good boy.”

And that’s how it happened. I now had a boy. I told him to be a good boy and that daddy was going to use his ass. This conversation had made me rock hard.

While we were still spooning, I took my hand, grabbed my cock that was still lubed up from our earlier fuck, pushed it up against his hole and slid it in. I began telling him what a good boy he was for letting daddy use his hole. He’s a loud guy and he moaned loud enough that it was almost certain my neighbours could hear. I began thrusting into him harder and deeper and he screamed, and I mean screamed, “Daddy, daddy, give me your cock.” I asked him if he wanted daddy’s seed in him and he screamed, “Yes daddy, I want your seed.” 

Well, that set me off like a volcano. We regularly met up over the next eight months, until his term was over at university and he went back home for the summer. 

I became less interested in flogging him and stuck more to the daddy-son fetish with him. For many, those two can go hand in hand. But I began to realize that didn’t work for me. I began to learn that I was aroused by this incest role play but I couldn’t associate it with violence. I determined it was likely to do with my upbringing — while I had been physically disciplined as a child, it was never harsh and I just could not associate parents and their kids with violence. I preferred to be affectionate with him during these scenes, if also firm and forceful. 

How, though, could I associate sex with parents? I’ve yet to figure that one out. If you’d asked me a couple years earlier if this could’ve turned me on, I would’ve said, “Hell no.” But as I delved deeper into the fetish world, I was becoming better at disassociating reality from fantasy. It was playful. It was fun. This didn’t mean I had some deep-seated desire to molest my children. In fact, it was quite normal, since many of our erotic memories stem from our childhoods. It also gave me the opportunity to be both nurturing and in control — two strong aspects of my personality. Call me the benevolent dictator of the bedroom.

When the boy returned to Vancouver after the summer to begin his next term, we met up a couple of times. However, I think we both realized things had run their course. As sexually exciting as it had been, we lived very different lives and had very different interests. The relationship wasn’t going to develop into something deeper beyond friendship and sex. I definitely still think of him fondly, though, and am grateful he helped me become comfortable with this sexual fantasy of mine.