The Real McCoy

🌸 Chapter 1: “You’re the Top”

It was barely 8:30 AM on Friday—a newly negotiated remote workday for Jon—and he was already trapped. Their house was a charming but small, old craftsman, barely able to accommodate two dads and two teenage daughters. This left Jon hunched over his laptop at a console dresser in his and Rob’s bedroom.

He’d been up for hours, his morning run in the dark, while the world slept—the first truly warm day of spring. Showered, he now wore a crisp, pressed shirt for Zoom calls, paired with comfortable shorts below the desk line—business up top, party below, he joked. A metaphor for the bifurcation of his life—but on this day, it felt like the Gantt chart detailing the project rollout was winning the war.

“I have the best job in the world. I have the best job in the world,” he whispered to steady himself.

Through a quirky career path, he’d found himself the head of strategy for a charitable foundation doing great things, despite his sparse credentials. He sometimes said growing up, the only professionals he knew were characters on sitcoms. Get the work done, have a few laughs, and repeat. The real complexities sometimes slipped past him—especially balancing his responsibilities with himself.

Rob entered with the easy, unhurried, athletic grace of a man who’s grown used to working from home, of the sort that required charm and fluidity, not multi-year deadlines. He was wearing boxers and a long-sleeved T-shirt—one of Jon’s, from a fundraising race. On Jon, it fit loosely; on Rob, it hugged his shoulders, and the way it tightened over his pecs signaled it had been chest day at the gym.

Below the hem of the boxers, his sturdy, dusky-haired thighs were fully exposed, a simple, powerful testament to his dedicated fitness. He was distractingly attractive, a fact Jon had never stopped noticing over two decades.

Rob slid a mug onto a coaster near Jon. “Fuel for the engine of philanthropy.”

Jon reached for the mug without looking up. “We’re ten days late on the trans health  grant rollout, and I have to—”

Rob leaned over Jon’s shoulder, and the scent of soap and honest sweat—a combination Jon found maddeningly appealing—threw Jon’s focus off. Rob’s chest, firm and warm against the back of Jon’s neck, was a sudden, physical demand for his attention.

“You know what’s ten days late? You. And me. Everything’s quiet. The kids are at school. I’m free until one.” He rested a hand on Jon’s, commandeering his trackpad, flicking to his calendar. “You have a few hours of ‘focused time’ scheduled, which means nobody’s expecting you to answer any calls.”

Jon felt his resolve shudder at the bristle of Rob’s jaw against his ear. “Rob, I can’t. I have… deliverables. And Clare has a follow-up at the clinic.”

Rob straightened up, the loss of physical contact leaving a cold ghost. “I’m proposing an impromptu date. Mid-morning sex. And then we go out for lunch—real lunch, no laptops allowed. What do we have to clear to make it happen by ten?”

Jon hesitated, his strategic mind still fighting the proposal. “I just don’t see how the window—”

Rob stepped closer again, his expression softening into a familiar, decades-old confidence. He lowered his voice, just enough for Jon to hear the warm, off-key sound, and rumbled two lines: “You’re the top. You’re the Coliseum.”

Jon recognized the specific, layered invitation, and the unspoken direction for their sex date: Rob was asking to be topped, and deploying Cole Porter to get it. It was the music of Rob’s seduction years ago, and a claim that—for at least today—he was the one in charge, sexually.

Jon glanced outside. The first round of cherry blossoms were already dropping their petals like pink snow. He sighed, the temptation tipping the balance. He closed the laptop lid.

“Okay. Fine. Let’s list the landmines. Clare has to get from school to her follow-up at the clinic and dropped back off. That’s nine-thirty to ten, and then again an hour later, minimum.”

“You only need to sign her in. She can take an Uber back. If you leave early you can be back by ten” Rob said, already pulling out his phone. “Neal’s at crew, so we’re safe there.”

“Why don’t you take her while I get work done?”

“Because,” Rob raised an eyebrow, “I will be cleaning out.” 

“Right.” Jon was more convinced. “I can hold off on the deliverables memo until lunch, but if Adam calls—”

“If Adam calls, you let it go to voicemail.”

“He’s my boss. He’s the CEO.”

Rob grinned, undeterred. “Deal. Meet upstairs at ten sharp, Strategic Genius. Don’t be late.”

He winked, turned sharply, and walked out of the bedroom, the warm, off-key sound of “Baby, if I’m the bottom, you’re the top” trailing lightly behind him. And then the sound of the shower down the hall.

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🚗 Chapter 2: “At Long Last Love” 

Jon grabbed his keys, the promise of ten o’clock—and Rob’s velvet, commanding hum—echoing in his mind like a hot countdown timer. He needed this errand with Clare to be clinical, efficient, and over.

His orange hybrid sat on the street, its hood dusted with the pink confetti of the falling cherry blossoms. He climbed in and pulled up his Cole Porter playlist.

Invigorated by the sudden warmth of the day, he rolled down his window for the first time since before the long gray of winter. A deep, rich voice kicked in—Bobby Short’s signature, elegant delivery.

Jon hummed the opening melody, mouthing a few lines: “Is it an earthquake or simply a shock…” As he accelerated, the pink snow of blossoms lifted off the roof and trailed behind him. 

He turned up the volume. “Is it for all time? Or simply a lark? Is it a fancy …Or is it at long last love?“

At the front of the school, he looked up, feeling lighter, everything possible—until he saw Clare, walking stridently, heard her voice raised in a hiss, “What is that… MUSIC? WHY IS IT SO LOUD!”

Jon looked up at her, deadpan. “You know what’s quiet? Walking.” He gently revved the motor and lurched the car just a few inches to make his point. Some days these moments with Clare were like facing off with his own reflection.

Clare slid her willowy frame into the passenger seat, backpack thumping against the door.

Jon looked her over—the tightness, the sulking. “You don’t deserve Cole Porter,” he grimaced, pulling away from the curb.

They were only two blocks from school when the carefully constructed sarcasm mask slipped, replaced by a sudden, wobbling chin wrinkle, which Jon recognized as his own ugly-cry signal. Her eyes were wide, wet, and glistening with a vulnerability she almost never displayed.

“It’s the worst day of my whole life,” she said, her voice a low, miserable break.

The Cole Porter, the Gantt chart, and the memory of Rob’s demanding hum all faded as the world condensed down to the two of them. He slid a hand between Clare’s thigh and the car seat. “Clare-bear… what’s going on?”

Clare confessed the dilemma of Max Wilch, the boy she thought she liked, but whose invitation to go out she had met with an automated, self-sabotaging burst of laughter.

“I wanted to say yes, but all that came out was this stupid laugh. It wasn’t even funny! So he just turned and walked away! And now he’s telling everyone I’m the cruelest person who ever lived.”

Jon immediately took his foot off the accelerator. “First of all, he’s not telling ‘everyone’ anything. He doesn’t even know ‘everyone.’ He’s not even popular.”

Poor boy. He’d dared to try to breach Clare’s cool retreats and gotten laughed at for it.

Clare sniffled, looking away. 

Jon sighed. This wasn’t going to be a quick drop-off. It was one of the many unexpected catastrophes of teenage life.

He pulled into the nearly empty parking lot and shut off the ignition. He texted the clinic, noting they may be a little late—entirely his fault. “Okay. Tell me how we fix this. We have time.”

He asked Clare to recount what actually happened, gently stripping away hyperbole and embellishment, his nimble mind working through the adolescent problem like a complex negotiation. “So here’s what I would do if I were you: text him, right now. Tell him exactly what you just told me…”

They spent five more minutes crafting the perfect, vulnerable apology text, double-checked it for tone. “Wait,” Jon added, “make sure it’s just to him. Save the group text embarrassment for another day.” She pressed send.

When he finally signed her in at the clinic, he checked his watch: 10:01 AM.

He felt the buzz of his phone against his thigh.

The text was from Rob: a mirror selfie, Rob still in the T-shirt and boxers, leaning against the bedroom doorframe, a demanding smirk on his face. The shirt was hiked up, the boxers down, to expose his hip bone and pubes, the thick root of his cock. The bottom of the frame was filled with the muscled, hairy landscape of his thighs. The caption was just one word: NOW.

Jon’s breath was more of a grunt as he shoved the phone back into his pocket.

He left the clinic, started up the car, mind already three steps ahead—formulating strategies for cutting corners, imagining a police cruiser suddenly appearing in his rearview mirror.

“Sorry, Officer,” he’d have to explain, “I’ve got two teenagers, a hectic job, and I just received a hot-as-fuck thirst trap from my husband.” If worse came to worst, he could show the pic. He might get a police escort the rest of the way, sirens and all, he snickered and pressed harder on the pedal.

He was supposed to be in the bedroom at 10:00 AM. Now, he was still ten minutes away, and the game had officially changed from impromptu date to beat-the-clock. He grumbled  against the day’s conspiring forces.

Still—he couldn’t help the twitch at the corner of his mouth, thinking of Clare and Max Wilch—remembering the first, fretful, delicious days of infatuation.

He restarted his playlist, Bobby Short’s voice joining him for the drive. “Is it a cocktail, this feeling of joy? Or is what I feel the real McCoy?“

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🥘 Chapter3: “Let’s Misbehave”

Jon barely resisted doing forty in a twenty-five zone. He screeched the orange hybrid up to the curb at 10:12 AM.

Rob was waiting for him, pacing the small living room. Jon dropped his keys on the entry table and surged forward. Rob dropped his phone on the sofa and met him, pulling him into a kiss, with that specific heat that only delay can create.

Rob’s firm shoulder was under Jon’s hand, and the memory of Rob’s hum was driving him. Jon grinned, pulling Rob toward the bedroom. They were halfway there—Jon already pulling the work shirt over his head, Rob’s shorts unbuttoned, held up by a fist—when distraction found them again.

The front door opened and then slammed shut. “DAD!” 

Neal ambled in, her blue hair slightly askew. She stopped, eyebrows furrowing at the sight of Jon’s shirt half off, Rob in his boxers. “What are you guys doing?”

“Laundry,” Rob answered. A well-worn excuse. “What are you doing off campus?”

“Juniors have off-campus privileges,” Jon reminded him with a mumble.

Neal braced herself. “I’m so, so sorry. You know we have French class lunch Fridays? I signed up to bring Coq Au Vin.” A beat. “Today.”

“What?” asked Rob. “Today? When did you know about this??”

“Last week,” Neal said, her cheeks flushing red.

“I can’t just… whip up Coq Au Vin,” Rob said, clearly already calculating options in his mind.

“Dad, you’re a chef,” Neal pleaded.

“Was. Now a consultant. I’m not supposed to have culinary emergencies.” Rob corrected, turning to Jon, almost pleading.

Jon settled into a kitchen bar stool, resolved to where this was plainly heading. “Better get consulting.”

Rob accepted the challenge.

Jon leaned against the counter with Neal, watching Rob’s magnificent hustle. His phone gave a soft ping every few minutes as another email loaded. Jon thumbed through, resisting with the anchor of Neal folded against him. Clare favored Rob as a baby, but Neal had always clung more to Jon, had been more physically intertwined.

Rob commanded the kitchen, rolling up his undershirt sleeves to reveal thick, defined forearms. A chicken cooked earlier for lunch salads was repurposed, a mesh bag cut open, sending new potatoes rolling across the counter.

“Sous chef,” Rob said, pointing to Neal. “I need these washed.”

She joined him, washing and drying the potatoes, tentative at first but quickly adapting, her own athletic grace an echo of Rob’s. Jon loved to see them like that, in sync, traces of Rob showing in her.

And then there was Rob. Chopping vegetables with professional speed, bare forearms flexing. His focused hustle was pure sex appeal—competent, confident, and utterly irresistible. 

Jon couldn’t send a thirst trap, but he could send another coded message, one that would go right over Neal’s head, mistaking it for only some old show tune and missing the true meaning.

“We’re all alone, no chaperone, can get our number…” Jon breathed, sing-songy.

Rob stopped chopping as if he’d heard his most secret name said aloud. Gray eyes flicked to Jon, and then back again to his cutting. But his lips quirked, message received.

The steam from the pans curled Neal’s hair and dampened Rob’s t-shirt—the material clinging to his torso. He wiped a hand over his brow, through his dusky hair, the first dusting of silver catching the kitchen light.

“They say that spring means just one little thing to little lovebirds, we’re not above birds…” Jon resumed.

Rob blushed, a hand on Neal’s as she stirred the pot. “Not helping, Jon.”

Jon silently mouthed the final words to Rob, Neal focused on stirring: “Let’s misbehave.”

At 11:05 AM. Rob turned off the burners. He spooned a taste, for himself and for Neal. They nodded in unison. “Not the real McCoy,” he conceded, “but it’ll do.”

As he packaged up the improvised meal into a ceramic tray and a thermal carry case in record time, Neal turned to Jon.

“Papa? Can you drive me?”

Jon started to grab for his car keys but caught Rob’s eyes. They shared a quick, focused back and forth without words. They turned to Neal with a clear, unified veto: “Uber.”

Neal began to speak but let her shoulders drop instead. “Okay. Sorry.”

“Don’t say ‘sorry,’” Jon reminded her, ordering her ride on his phone. “Say ‘thanks for understanding.’”

She opened her mouth and paused, then forced the words out. “Thank you for understanding.”

The door slammed shut behind her.

Rob turned from the stove, wiping his hands on a towel, stressed but triumphant. He looked at Jon, hungry, and not for Coq au Vin.

“Wait for the Uber to leave,” Jon said.

When Neal was safely gone, Rob dropped the towel. “My consulting fee, Strategic Genius: Bed. Now.”

Jon hummed the final verse on the staggering walk to the bedroom, Rob’s hands running up under his shirt: “They say that bears have love affairs, and even camels, we’re merely mammals…Let’s misbehave.”

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🥵 Chapter 4: “Night and Day”

Rob pulled Jon into the bedroom, stopping just past the threshold. He seized Jon’s lean torso in his rough hands, planting a chain of hot, open-mouthed kisses from his throat down the flat plane of his belly.

His hands roved, tracing the long, sinewy lines of Jon’s runner’s build, his fingers finding the slight hardness of his ribs. He leaned in, his lips brushing against the fine black hair that arrowed down the center of Jon’s chest and disappeared into his shorts.

His lips grazed the head of Jon’s cock, swirling, then opening to take it in, wet, swallowing. The heat of Rob’s mouth was a sudden, demanding furnace, and Jon felt his own arousal surge instantly, painfully. Rob continued to suck, drawing a needy groan from Jon, loosening his hold on the phone he’d been holding since calling Neal’s Uber.

Rob rose up, licking his spit and Jon’s precum from his lips. His own thick cock jutting out proudly beneath the hem of his boxers. His eyes lingered on the prominent veins that mapped Jon’s forearms, and the phone slipped from his slick fingers and landed with a soft tap on the nightstand beside the bed.

When they looked face to face, Rob’s gray eyes were heavy-lidded with the You, you, you need Jon always recognized. Rob gave a slow nod.

Jon pushed Rob onto the mattress, onto his knees, and pulled the ankle socks from Rob’s feet. He pushed Rob’s torso forward, shoulders down, and sank his face into the tight heat of Rob’s ass. His tongue sought out the heat beneath the slightly furred surface, tracing the ring. His tongue pressed in, lightly and then deeper, drawing out those deep, involuntary moans, raw and glorious, that belonged only to him.

When Jon pulled back, he wiped the spit from his mouth and chin. Reaching for the nightstand drawer, he caught sight of Rob’s alarm clock. 11:26 AM. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Jon heard. “The tick… tick… tock… of the clock…”

“Not now, Cole Porter,” he thought, seizing the bottle of lube from the bedside drawer, then running his slicked fingers between Rob’s solid cheeks.

“Oh you did prep,” he grinned, fingers corkscrewing, noticing not just Rob’s ease but the towels already set out for afterwards.

“Told you,” Rob murmured, arching his back, grinding his ass back.

11:31 AM. Jon settled against Rob, chest to spine, his hips positioning, cock pressing.

A sound pierced the heat: his phone on the nightstand, buzzing with the distinct tone Jon had assigned for his boss, Adam—the white noise of his job invading the space.

Rob’s patience snapped. “If you even think about it…” He reached out, not to grab Jon, but to grab the phone from the sidetable, hurled it with a sharp flick of his wrist. It landed against the pile of dirty laundry with a soft, final thus.

“Fuck your deadlines, Jon.” Rob’s voice was raw, hips bucking upward to his husband’s dripping cock. “You’re mine now.”

Jon pushed in, fast enough to earn a deep gasp, despite Rob’s prep. He leaned down, burying his face in the nape of Rob’s neck, his lips and teeth trailing to Rob’s shoulder, biting and gnawing.

He whispered against Rob’s sweaty skin, “You feel so good.”

Rob pushed back, meeting Jon’s thrust. “Fuck me like you mean it,” Rob demanded.

The pace of Jon’s hips tightened, from easing to a focused drive. He could hear in Rob’s grunt that he was hitting all the right places.

He settled onto Rob’s hips, riding him hard. The motion was a relentless, demanding pace. Watching Rob’s profile, the handsome features contorting into a mask of pure, exposed pleasure.

Jon rested more of his weight on Rob, sweaty skin clapping. The sound of his own breathing merged with Rob’s low, rumbling encouragement. He wrapped arms around Rob, head against his back, and pumped harder—summoning his runner’s tenacity.

“Fuck yeah,” Rob whimpered, his muscles tightening beneath Jon—a building storm. Rob let one hand stroke his own thick cock, bracing himself on one arm and knees, as Jon directed the final, desperate angle of the stroke, hitting the spot known only to him.

Rob’s breath hitched, the slight tremor in his muscles turning into a full-body shudder. Jon heard the sharp, silent intake of breath, the raw grunt of release. Rob’s body jerked, his muscles clenching around Jon. “Fuckmefuckmefuckme…”.Jon bore down, taking his last, greedy use of Rob’s body.

Feeling Rob crumble beneath him, shoulders dropping, his lean hips began to whip, driving his body’s long, straight lines into Rob’s thicker frame. There was the slick slapping of lube and sweat as he grasped for the meat of Rob’s chest—the anchor that never failed.

His breath caught, his hips stuttered, and his control shattered.

“Rob—Ohgod—f-fuck,” Jon gasped. His hardest, deepest thrust drove a rough grunt from Rob as the first wave hit—a full, blinding orgasm. His flooding torrent was followed by a series of frantic, shallow slams, driving his hot load deep, hips locking down, as the waves of cum blasted out in diminishing pulses.

At 11:44 AM, the only sound was their shallow breathing. The heavy, spent silence they had fought for had finally arrived.

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🍜 Chapter 5: “Let’s Do It (Let’s Fall in Love)”

They lay tangled together, spent, feeling the cool air prick their sweat-slicked skin. Rob’s arm tightened around Jon’s waist, pulling him in for a lingering snuggle—the specific, silent intimacy that was their counterweight to the outside world. It was an oasis, a soft opening that almost as soon as it opened began to close.

Jon sighed, prying Rob’s heavy arms off before rolling out of bed. He pulled on his discarded shorts and retrieved his work shirt. As he slowly pulled the crisp cotton over his lean, sweaty frame, it felt like an unwelcome armor—a sudden return to his strategic persona.

He reached one hand down into the laundry pile, fishing blindly until his fingers brushed against the cool glass of the banished phone. The screen flared, showing the damage: twenty-one new obligations.

“I have to go, Rob,” he murmured. “No can do lunch.” He turned, the effort of avoiding Rob’s gaze a physical strain.

“Jon—”

“Rob, I’ve got people waiting on me. You don’t know.”

Rob, sitting up, grabbed a towel. Jon paused by the closet, still taking him in: the easy curve of muscle, the faint sheen of sweat across his chest, and the soft, dusky hair that dusted his sturdy forearms and framed the sharp definition of his pecs and thighs.

“I know you need to eat,” he countered simply. “You’ve been fighting the tide since 8:30 AM. You need lunch, and you need to step away from the phone.”

Jon stood by the closet, hemmed in by the weight of obligations and responsibility, and Rob’s expectant gaze. “But—” he hedged.

He flashed for a brief moment on the days before strategy and consulting, before the kids, before the house. Before everything but just them. And even, more distantly, before the knowledge of obligation itself.

The confession coming unbidden, meant for no one—just a reckless yearning for a life unmapped by schedules taking voice.

“Honestly, if someone sang ‘Let’s Do It (Let’s Fall in Love),’ just like Louis Armstrong—just like—I’d leave it all.”

It was his favorite performance: not a showtune, but pure, slow seduction, delivered by Armstrong with his unique gravelly rumble, the intonation of every syllable heavy with the promise of abandon.

Rob turned from the side of the bed, pulling his cock into his shorts and zipping up. Eyes locked, he cleared his throat, setting his jaw just so.

“Cold cape cod clams… ‘gainst their wish… do it.” His voice was low and warm, an awkward but fearless effort at Armstrong’s growl that filled the room. “Even lazy… jellyfish do it. Let’s do it, let’s fall in love.”

The absurdity, the embarrassment of putting himself out there. The callback to their earliest days, before all of this, dissolved Jon’s resolve. Rob, Jon had to admit, was the real McCoy.

Jon pulled his quivering chin into shape and grinned, tugging at his shirt buttons. If his phone was buzzing, he couldn’t hear it. “Okay, Satchmo. Let’s get some phở.”

END

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Author’s note:

Jon and Rob’s history is told in A Charmed Life, if you’d like more of these guys. 

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