"Good day, Mr. Van den Berg."
"Hello, Irma," I greeted the maid and handed her my wet coat. It was another rainy day in San Francisco. "I'm here to see my father."
"He'll be right down. Can I get you something to drink while you wait?"
"A coffee's fine. Actually," I changed my mind, "make that a scotch. Bring one for my father as well."
I walked to the living room by myself and sat down on the couch. The portrait which was facing me was almost comically large. It was a painting of my father and his three sons. I examined it as if seeing it for the first time, uninterrupted except for Irma bringing me my drink.
Even though I looked more like my Asian mother than my white dad, he was always the one I was closer with. As his firstborn, I was raised like a prince, and I was the one who got to stand on his right-hand side in the family portrait. He was a strict, demanding man, and nothing took precedence over his sons. He was always there to bail my brothers and me out of whatever trouble we got into, and he was the one who instilled such a competitive spirit in me.
When it came to wives, my father believed in "upgrading" to a younger model every ten years. My brothers and I all had different mothers. On my father's left in the painting stood Kristoffer, the second wife's offspring. Kris was a big part of the reason why I felt such self-inflicted pressure to get married and have kids soon. Kris had just gotten engaged, and as happy as I was for him, I wasn't thrilled by the idea that my brother, who was more than ten years younger than me, would be beating me to the altar.
In front of Dad in the portrait, with Dad's hand on his shoulder, stood my youngest half-brother, Blake. Blake was the one who had changed the most since this painting was done a few years ago; he was only 12 in it. "Now that I think about it," I did math in my head... Blake was born in 2004. That... that was the year my son was born. My son that I knew nothing about until last week.
"Horrible fucking weather!" my father barked upon entering the living room. He was just back from his third summer vacation this year with his latest wife, and he looked brownish-orange in the face. "Oh good, there's something to drink."
He took a hearty chug of scotch, as if it were water, and sat across from me.
"How are you doing?" I tried to break the ice. I could feel myself getting nervous, which I wasn't used to.
"I'm doing fine. And you want something," my father noted, refusing to beat around the bush. "What is it?"
"I wanted to tell you... I'll be going to London for a while."
"Why? We don't get enough rain in San Francisco for ya?"
"A part of it is work," I told a half-lie. "I helped establish the office there and I wanna go check up on them."
"And the other part? You've fucked every single woman in the Bay Area and that's your next stop in your wife hunt?"
"First of all, you're one to speak," I smirked. If there was a bigger womanizer than me in this city, then it was my father. "And no. It's because of... something I learned recently. I... I have a son. In London. He's about to turn 16."
A moment of tense silence followed.
"Fucking hell," Dad finally said, and finished his whiskey in one gulp. "From back when you used to live there?"
"Correct," I nodded, almost business-like.
"How do you know he's yours?"
"Honestly... I believe her. The mom. She doesn't seem to be after money."
"Of course, of course. First thing you're gonna do is take a DNA test!"
"I thought about that as well. But seeing as the chances are big that I am indeed the father, I've decided to go to London and take the test there."
"Just don't get attached until you know anything for certain," my father pointed a strict finger at me. He might seem like an asshole to some, but it was his way of caring, and I appreciated that. "When're you leaving?"
"The boy's birthday's on the first weekend of October. So I'm going a few days before that."
My father went quiet, and looked away from me to stare at the wall. I felt anxious. Had I disappointed him?
"Dad... What're you thinking?" I asked a couple of minutes later, when the silence became unbearable.
"I'm thinking... If this boy proves to be your son... It might be time for a new family portrait."
Birthdays used to be a family affair, days spent with my mum and my grandparents. If it were up to me, I'd keep it that way forever. That way, there was no reason to worry how many kids from school would show up; no pressure over who had the most mates. But this year, for the first time ever, I would be having a "big" birthday party.
Recently, some of the girls from school had started to throw large parties for their sweet sixteen (much to my granddad's protests that it was another "American made-up thing"). Then, it had caught on with the boys as well. Next thing I know, people were asking me, "What're you doing for your sixteenth, Callum?", and I felt coerced to jump on the bandwagon.
Luckily, my grandparents owned a small restaurant in East London, so at least the venue was taken care of. I'd started the school year anxious about how many people would show up to my party, even though there were weeks to go. And then, something had happened to take my mind off everything else: my father, who I'd never met, was suddenly back in the picture.
"Callum, this is completely up to you, but... would you like to meet him?" Mum had asked me.
"Is– Is he in London?" I stuttered in response.
"No. He lives in America. But he said he's happy to come here if that's what you decide."
I hated making decisions. And now I got to decide THIS?!
"When– When is he thinking of coming here?"
"Whenever. I mentioned you're having a birthday party soon, and he offered to come for that. What do you think?"
I thought that this all sounded like a proper soap opera. My estranged father, showing up to my sweet sixteenth.
"Yeah... You can invite him. I mean, whatever."
In the days that followed, I immediately regretted my decision. It was bad enough that I was stressing about the party already, but now my dad would be making an appearance as well?!
Fortunately, my birthday fell on a rainy Sunday. No one seemed to have anything better to do, and almost everyone I'd invited showed up to my party. I was thrilled! Apparently, word had gone around that my grandparents would be letting people drink beer, wine or cider if they chose, which was probably a big reason for the amazing turnout.
I'd never felt more popular. Yet, there was always one other thought in the back of my mind as well. It bothered me... until I finally saw him. I recognized him as soon as he walked through the door. He looked out of place. He was dressed way too elegantly. He looked foreign... yet at the same time, he kinda looked like me.
My mum jumped off her seat and went to talk to him. They'd been texting back and forth, I knew. I sat with my mates, drinking a strawberry-and-lime cider, and pretending not to look at Mum and this new man in my life.
"Callum, will you come for a second?" Mum walked up to the table and pulled me aside. I followed her to the bar, where the elegant foreigner was now standing, drinking a gin and tonic.
"Callum, this is Josh," Mum introduced us to each other by our given names.
"Hi," I said awkwardly, putting my right hand forward.
To make things even more awkward, the man opened his arms at the same time, inviting me in for a hug. I pulled my hand back and went in for a hug instead.
The embrace felt surreal, but... kinda nice. My father was wearing what must be expensive cologne, which filled my nostrils without being overwhelming. I was a bit shorter, so my nose rubbed against his neck as we hugged, and I closed my eyes for a second.
"How long have you been in London?" I asked the question which I'd been preparing as my icebreaker.
"A few days now. I'm stayin' at a hotel in Soho," he flashed a smile that made him look more like a film star than a real person. The fact that he had that strong American accent made me feel even more like he was straight out of Hollywood.
"Do– Do you like it here?"
"I love it. I used to live here, as you know –" he chuckled, "– so I kinda know my way around, and... it's really good to be back."
I smiled, much less elegantly than him, I'm sure. That was it; I'd run out of questions.
"This is for you," my father reached for a gift-wrapped box on the bar and handed it to me. "Happy birthday."
"Thank you," I nodded, not knowing what else to say. "I– I better go back to my mates now. But I'll see you around."
"See you. I'll be here for a while," he lifted his drink, and I wished I'd brought my glass so we could cheer.
For the rest of my party, my father seemed to be more interesting to my friends than I was. Many people came up to ask me if that was really my dad, and to pass me a compliment that he looked very handsome or really young.
As much as I tried to mingle with everyone, my eyes kept darting back to my father. It wasn't until a couple of hours (and a couple of ciders) later that I managed to lose him from my sight.
The drinks were making their way through my system, and pretty soon I was dying for a wee. I made my way to the loo hurriedly, but stopped dead in my tracks as soon as I was in through the door.
"Oh, hey there!"
My father was standing at one of the two urinals, taking a piss.
"Hi," I replied nervously. I stepped in slowly, wondering whether to go to a stall or take the second urinal. Something drew me to my father, and that's where I headed.
The urinals were close together, with no divider in between. I looked down as I unbuckled my belt, fighting the temptation to look to my left, where my dad stood. It was no use, I couldn't help it! I took a discreet look and saw his entire penis pulled out, a strong stream of piss flowing from it.
I'd intended to only take a glimpse for a brief second. Yet now that I saw it, I couldn't take my eyes off it! Dad's cock seemed huge! Easily twice as big as mine. Interestingly, he had his balls pulled out of his trousers as well. His ball sack looked big and hefty as well, completely smooth-shaven. Even more interesting (even though it shouldn't have come as a surprise) was the fact that he was circumcised. I'd only seen a cut cock online before, never in person, and I was tempted to drop to my knees and examine it more closely. Then I realised what the fuck I was doing. THIS IS MY FATHER'S COCK, FOR FUCK'S SAKE!
Quickly, I looked away, feeling myself blushing and hoping my dad couldn't see my face. Or my cock, for that matter! By now, I was starting to get an erection. I wanted the ground to open up and swallow me whole.
"Listen, I'll be headed out soon," he started to talk as he finished up pissing and put his cock away. "But your mom has my number. Shoot me a text some day and we'll hang out, aight?"
"Okay," I nodded, or at least I tried to. My head was already bent as low as possible.
"See ya around," he patted my back strongly, making me sway forward a little bit, while I stood there with my semi-hard cock in my hands, unable to let go and piss.
My dad washed his hands and left the loo. I stood there, listening to my party going on on the other side of the door, as my cock grew until it was rock-hard a few seconds later. I knew it was no use; I could never pee with an erection. If I wanted to go, I had to cum first.
Quickly, I retreated to a stall and locked the door behind me. I closed my eyes and started to stroke my cock: my first wank as a 16-year-old. I tried to think of whatever porn I'd seen last, but there was only one image in my mind: the sight of my father's cock, standing at the urinal next to me. I still felt his hand where he'd patted me on the back before he left. His cologne still lingered in my nostrils.
"Ahhh!!!" I let go suddenly, surprising myself by how quickly I came. I shot my load in the toilet, trying to ignore my own thoughts. Quickly, as soon as I was done, I took some toilet paper and wiped the sensitive tip of my dick, before pulling my foreskin forward and tucking my cock away. I ran out of the bathroom, like I'd just committed a crime and was keen to get out of the crime scene.