It was

the summer of

’62. I was fresh out of high

school and had decided to follow in my father’s footsteps and pursue a

career in engineering. Dad was in his prime and never looked better. Solid

and muscular with dark good looks, he still turned heads everywhere he

went and made me proud to be a chip off his old block. I was crazy about

my old man and knew I’d miss him when I left for college. So we planned

to spend as much of the summer together as we could.

Dad and I had our special games. We didn’t talk about them all that

much, we just played them. Sometimes he instigated the play, sometimes

I did. It was just something we’d been doing for a while, and I think we

were both amazed when it started. But the sehat we were engaging

in acts so forbidden didn’t wrack us with guilt, it just gave us a sense of

childlike excitement. I think it was a natural outgrowth of our love and

special bond. We were having too much fun to judge ourselves.

For instance, Dad had a ritual about shaving. It was a sacred moment

in his day, those few unhurried minutes in front of the mirror. He refused

to be rushed about it, taking his sweet time, drawing the razor slowly and

carefully over his , almost caressingly. He shaved nude and showered

afterwards, because he didn’t like stubble in his underwear. He brought

something sensual to this mundane everyday activity, and I loved to watch

him as far back as I remember. I felt we shared something intensely

intimate during those few minutes every m. Sometimes we shaved

together, standing togeth

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