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By (user no longer on site) OP
3 weeks ago
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David glanced over at his wife. “Do you think I should go?” he asked Hazel.
“Of course. Why wouldn’t you?”
“Well… they’ll all be young lads. They won’t want an old boy like me tagging along.”
“You’re only sixty‑five, David. You’re not done for yet.”
He tried to smile, but the knot in his stomach didn’t ease. He’d been genuinely touched when Stevie invited him to the stag weekend. Stevie’s dad had been his closest friend growing up, and the invitation had felt like a small thread tying the past to the present. But there was something else he hadn’t quite managed to say aloud.
Hazel noticed the way he fiddled with the corner of the newspaper. “There’s more to it, isn’t there?”
David sighed. “It’s… well, it’s a gay stag do. All Stevie’s pals are gay lads in their twenties and thirties. I don’t want to be the awkward old straight bloke hovering in the corner. I don’t want them thinking I’m judging them or… or that I don’t fit.”
Hazel softened. “You’ve known Stevie since he was in nappies. He invited you because he wants you there. Not because he needs another drinking buddy.”
David looked down at his hands. “I just don’t want to make anyone uncomfortable.”
“You won’t,” she said firmly. “You’ll be yourself. That’s enough.”
He wasn’t entirely convinced, but the warmth in her voice steadied him. Maybe she was right. Maybe it wasn’t about fitting in with the young lads at all. Maybe it was about showing up for Stevie the way he’d once shown up for his dad.
Still, as he imagined the weekend ahead—cocktails, club nights, whatever else young gay men did on stag dos—he felt a flutter of nerves. He wasn’t sure if he was more afraid of embarrassing himself… or discovering he’d been out of touch for far longer than he realised.
The morning of the stag do arrived far too early for David’s liking. He’d barely slept—half excitement, half nerves—and now he found himself standing outside Edinburgh Airport with a group of men young enough to be his sons, some even his grandsons. They were loud, cheerful, already buzzing despite the hour. Stevie spotted him and waved him over with a grin.
“Morning, David! Survived the early start, then?”
“Just about,” David said, though the warmth in Stevie’s voice eased something tight in his chest.
They all drifted toward the Wetherspoon’s by the departure gates, the unofficial starting point of every Scottish holiday. The place was already half-full of bleary-eyed travellers clutching pints like life rafts. The stag group claimed two tables, pushing chairs together, ordering breakfasts and beers with the reckless enthusiasm of men who’d decided time no longer applied to them.
“Get a pint in you, big man!” one of Stevie’s mates said, sliding a glass toward him.
David laughed. “At seven in the morning? My doctor would have a fit.”
“Your doctor’s no’ here,” another lad chimed in, and the table erupted in laughter.
The jokes flew fast—some cheeky, some downright filthy—but all good-natured. To David’s surprise, they made space for him easily, looping him into conversations, asking about his old stories with Stevie’s dad, teasing him gently but respectfully. He felt… welcome. Properly welcome.
Still, as he sipped his beer and let the noise wash over him, he noticed one young man sitting slightly apart from the chaos. Slim, dark-haired, maybe mid‑twenties. He wasn’t on his phone, wasn’t sulking—just quiet, hands wrapped around a mug of tea, eyes flicking up now and then as if checking no one was looking at him.
David leaned toward Stevie. “Who’s the lad over there? Doesn’t seem to be joining in.”
Stevie followed his gaze. “Oh, that’s Glen. Nice boy. Really shy, though. He’s a friend of a friend—got added to the group last minute.”
“Is he alright?” David asked.
“Aye, he’s fine. Just takes a while to warm up. Once he does, he’s sound.”
David nodded, but something about the lad tugged at him. Maybe it was the way Glen kept smoothing the sleeve of his jumper, a nervous habit David recognised from his own youth. Maybe it was the way he seemed grateful for the noise but separate from it, like someone standing just outside a warm room.
Or maybe David simply knew what it felt like to be the odd one out.
He took another sip of his beer, watching Glen glance toward the group, then away again. The lad looked like he wanted to join in but didn’t know how.
David understood that feeling far too well.
He set his pint down and cleared his throat. “Think I’ll go say hello,” he murmured.
Stevie raised an eyebrow, amused. “On you go, then. He’ll appreciate it.”
David stood, smoothing his jacket, and walked toward the quiet young man—still unsure of what he’d say, but certain that no one should start a weekend like this feeling alone.
David approached Glen with a gentle smile, careful not to come on too strong. The lad looked up, startled at first, then offered a polite nod.
“Mind if I sit for a minute?” David asked.
Glen shook his head. “No, not at all.”
Up close, the nerves were even more obvious—tight shoulders, pale face, fingers tapping a restless rhythm against his mug. David recognised the look. He’d seen it on his own son years ago, right before a turbulent flight to Spain.
“You alright, son?” David asked quietly.
Glen hesitated, then exhaled. “I’m… not great with flying.”
“Ah.” David nodded, as if that explained everything. “First time?”
“No. Just… doesn’t get easier.” Glen gave a small, embarrassed laugh. “Everyone else is buzzing and I’m sitting here trying not to bolt for the door.”
David felt a tug of sympathy. “Well, you’re not alone. I’m not exactly a fan of it myself.”
Glen’s eyes flicked up, surprised. “Really?”
“Oh aye. I just hide it better. Comes with age.” David leaned in slightly. “Tell you what—how about I sit beside you on the plane? Keep you company. Bit easier when you’ve someone to talk rubbish to.”
Glen blinked, visibly relieved. “Are you sure? You don’t have to—”
“I offered, didn’t I?” David said, smiling. “We’ll get through it together.”
Glen nodded, a shy but genuine smile forming. “Thanks. That… actually helps.”
David clapped him lightly on the shoulder. “Good lad.”
A moment later, Stevie appeared at the table, eyebrows raised. “Everything alright over here?”
“Aye,” David said. “But we need to shuffle seats. Glen and I are going to sit together.”
Stevie grinned. “Easy done. These idiots won’t care where they sit.”
He turned to the group and raised his voice. “Right, lads! Seat swap! Who’s got 34A and 34C?”
A chorus of groans and jokes followed.
“Aw, I wanted the window!”
“Swap with me and I’ll buy you a pint!”
“Mate, you’d swap your own mother for a pint.”
Tickets were passed around like playing cards. One lad tried to trade his seat for a breakfast muffin; another insisted he’d only move if someone promised not to snore on him. It was chaos, but warm, ridiculous chaos.
Eventually, Stevie returned with two boarding passes and handed them to David. “Sorted. You’re beside each other.”
Glen looked at the ticket as if it were a lifeline. “Thank you,” he murmured.
David waved it off. “We’ll be fine. Just stick with me.”
As the group finished their drinks and gathered their bags, David noticed Glen walking a little closer to him, shoulders less tense, steps a touch steadier.
Maybe, David thought, this weekend wasn’t going to be so daunting after all. And maybe he wasn’t the only one who needed a friendly face.
The plane hummed steadily through the clouds, the low rumble of the engines a constant backdrop to the muffled chatter of passengers up front. Glen and David had lucked out with the back row—three seats all to themselves, the last one empty, giving them a sliver of privacy tucked away just in front of the galley and toilet.
Glen's white-knuckled grip on David's hand during takeoff had set the tone. “Fuck, I hate this,” Glen had muttered, his face pale as the plane lurched skyward. David squeezed back reassuringly, their fingers intertwined until the seatbelt sign finally dinged off.
Glen's terror ebbed into exhaustion, and soon he slumped against David's shoulder, his breathing evening out into soft snores. David shifted slightly, trying to get comfortable, but his eyes drifted downward. Glen's legs were spread just enough in the cramped space, his tight white denim shorts hugging every curve. The fabric was thin, almost translucent under the cabin lights, and there it was, Glen's cock, outlined clearly, stiff and pressing against the seam. It wasn't massive, maybe five inches at most, but it strained visibly, the head clearly outlined beneath the denim.
David swallowed hard, heat flooding his groin. He wasn't sure why, he was as straight as they come, but staring at that bulge, the way it twitched faintly with Glen's breaths, David's own dick hardened in his jeans. He adjusted himself discreetly, pulse racing as forbidden thoughts flickered through his mind. The plane's dim lighting cast shadows that hid them from prying eyes, but anyone glancing back might catch a glimpse.
He didn't hear Glen stir, didn't notice the subtle shift until warm fingers wrapped around his wrist. David's hand was guided downward, pressed firmly against the front of those white shorts. Glen's eyes were half-lidded, a sly glint in them as he met David's gaze. “Shh,” Glen whispered, his voice husky from sleep. “Been hard since takeoff. Your fault for holding my hand like that.”
David gasped, his palm cupping the rigid length through the fabric. It twitched under his touch, warm and insistent, the denim rough against his skin. Glen bit his lip, glancing toward the aisle where a flight attendant pushed a cart past, oblivious for now. David's heart pounded, he should pull away, laugh it off as a joke, but instead, his fingers curled, rubbing along the shaft. Glen's hips bucked slightly, a soft groan escaping him.
Emboldened, David popped the button on Glen's shorts with his thumb, the zipper lowered quietly. He tugged the waistband down just enough to free Glen's cock, the pale shaft springing out, veined and flushed. David wrapped his hand around it. Not massive, but thick enough to fill his fist, the skin velvet-smooth. He stroked slowly, base to tip, twisting his wrist at the crown to smear the wetness down.
Glen's head fell back against the seat, his free hand clutching the armrest. “Yeah, like that,” he breathed, eyes darting to the front of the cabin. Footsteps echoed, someone heading to the rear toilet, a middle-aged bloke shuffling down the aisle. David froze, his hand still pumping Glen's cock in lazy, hidden motions under the cover of Glen's thigh draped over his lap. The passenger paused at the lavatory door, fiddling with the lock, but didn't turn their way. David's grip tightened, resuming the rhythm, faster now, the slick sounds muffled by the plane's drone.
Glen's balls drew up, his cock pulsing in David's fist. Another crew member wandered by, checking overhead bins, and David slowed to a teasing glide, thumb circling the slit to draw out more precum. Glen whimpered low, thrusting into the strokes. “Don't stop….fuck, close.” David's own erection strained painfully, but he focused, jerking Glen with firm, deliberate pulls, the head swelling as veins stood out.
The toilet flushed, the passenger emerging and ambling back forward. Clear. David sped up, hand flying now, the confined space amplifying every twitch and gasp. Glen's body tensed, and with a stifled grunt, he came, hot spurts coating David's fingers, dripping onto Glen’s shorts. Glen sagged, exhausted, as David milked the last drops, wiping his hand on a napkin from the seat pocket.
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