I tell them how special he makes me feel. We tell each other about the dates we go on. They probably came here from India to make better lives for their children. He has dinosaur-sized gauges—one black, the other green—that fall off when he's asleep. I find that they often want, desperately, to feel sexy even when their bodies—graying, sagging, failing—tell them not to.
We share a bottle of wine, and he asks if he can kiss me. We have a fantastic relationship. They probably came here from India to make better lives for their children. I tell them how special he makes me feel. He may be due back to come to San Francisco soon. He drives to Rainbow and we get groceries. He was saying things like I shouldn't worry about seeing him as he enjoyed it more than ever, and that he thought I enjoyed it too.
They've got everything I hate about Tim. I'm at Stanford, an hour away by train. I told him to go and shower and I went to my room and fingered myself to a quick and intense orgasm. He assumes I am basically devoid of taste. Those cloying eyes that search for meaning when it isn't there, trying to perform Chekhov on a Grindr date. My many guesses at the image of Tim's father have started to crystallize into a monolithic daddy. Besides, it sounds sort of fun.
His feelings seem unconditional, just as any father's love should be. That night when he came home he was quiet and I thought he might have realised he was wrong to have flaunted himself in front of me. He can't really be my dad. For the first time, this whole jig starts to feel like a real father-son relationship. He assumes I am basically devoid of taste. His visions of being a dad were naïve: small gifts of unconditional love without the hard, exhausting work.
After it's over, I swear to myself that I'll never do anything that weird ever again. Perhaps, he thinks, I'll morph into someone with a refined palate one day. He's the first man to shower me with full, unadulterated attention since my balls dropped. Maybe someone's taking care of him, or maybe he's learned how to take care of himself. These guys drive me nuts. I sat down next to him. He's the first man to shower me with full, unadulterated attention since my balls dropped.
He wanked harder and panted and I saw his abs flexing and his massive penis swelling as he grunted that he was going to cum. He doesn't belong to a subculture of men who think they're silver foxes. He may be due back to come to San Francisco soon. Other guys make me feel like shit, telling me I'm cute enough but nothing like the gorgeous white gay Adonises on campus. I am drawn to his storied gay life; he is amused by the charmed pleasantries of my famous school. Now, he wanted to play one.
I know this because, shortly after we start dating, he shows me a picture of himself aged 11 or 12. Now, he wanted to play one. I imagine that they're all judging me, and it stings. It's actually a lot of fun to play pretend when you're 21. I nod and, silently, agree. He likes to think he's found this potential in me, and he's the one who will bring it out. He came even more and even harder than he had the night before, even hitting his face and neck with the first two jets.
Besides, it sounds sort of fun. None of the guys he's seeing look like me. He started to grunt and then he shot streams of thick spunk out all over his chest and stomach. We never dig into our true messes, the dangerous parts of ourselves that we only expose to the people we love. When he calls me beautiful, he infuses it with a sincerity that's impossible not to believe. Most often, he wears a dull orange flannel.
. I bandage him up until he stops bleeding. I ignored him and when he asked me to admit I enjoyed watching, I walked out. It came out hard and in large amounts, maybe four big jets and a few small squirts. His feelings seem unconditional, just as any father's love should be. He may work in theater, but he doesn't dress like a theater guy, thank God.