Page 6 of Slay the Gay Away, Daddy

Mom and Dad are sitting at the table when I get home. Neither of them has touched their food, so I know I’m walking into the lion’s den, because Dad never misses a chance to stuff his face.Normally, after my conversion therapy sessions, I head upstairs and change into comfy clothes, but my father’s glare is keeping me locked in place. It’s the same angry look he gets anytime I act a bit too effeminate, or when he catches me staring at a guy.

“I’m not hungry. If it’s okay, I think I’m going to skip dinner tonight. Pastor Brooks and I—” I attempt to say, only to be cut off by Dad shaking his head and pointing at the seat. Sighing, I take my place on the other side of the table. “What did I do this time?”

“Was that sass I just heard coming out of your mouth, young man?”

“No, sir—”

“Because,” he interrupts, “the only thing I hate worse than a sodomite is a sassy sodomite. I’ve warned you about using that tone with me.”

I bite my tongue to stop myself from telling him to go straight to Hell, forcing an apologetic nod. “I’m sorry, sir.” I don’t mean the words, obviously, but living in this home is a requirement for my master plan of winning the heart of Miles Brooks. “I can do better, I promise. I want to be good, sir. I want to be a good Christian boy.”

“Yeah, well, want in one hand, shit in the other, and see which one fills up first.” He pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs. “Where did I go wrong with you, Darren? I’ve tried and tried to raise you up to be a strong, virile young man, but it’s just one disappointment after another with you. Those stupid dolls you used to hide under your mattress. The times I caught you dancing in your bedroom. That fag college you attended. I should have put my foot down the first time I caught a whiff of your homosexuality, but I didn’t.” His eyes narrow. “I’m putting it down now. After what I found in your room earlier, you’ve left me no choice.”

I swallow. “What do you mean?” If he looked under the loose floorboard in the closet and found my dildo, I know I’m fucked—and not in the fun way. He reaches down and grabs something out of his lap and lifts it.

He’s holding my Born This Way shirt. Fuck.

“Lady Gaga? Really, Darren? You know what I’ve told you about queer enablers. You know what the Lord thinks about her and her kind.” He grinds his teeth, his eyes narrowing. “And, you know what God calls us to do with sinners.”

“Love thy neighbor?” I say before I can stop myself.

“What the hell did you just say to me? Love thy neighbor?” He uses his foot to shove his chair away from the table and slams the shirt down. “Who told you that? Huh? Was it that lesbo down at the Pick-n-Save? That communist Mexican cartel member downtown?”

I furrow my brows together. “Rivers Rivera? He’s not a member of the cartel, he’s our mayor.”

“Oh, you bet your frilly little ass, he’s a part of their gang. I know their type. Anarchists, all of them. I bet he ain’t even got a green card—him or his little queer son. Now, answer the question. Who’s been filling your head with that crap?”

I blink at him. “Jesus.”

He points an accusatory finger at me. “Don’t you dare take the Lord’s name in vain in this house, young man.”

I shake my head. “No, sir. I meant, Jesus is the one who said it. ‘Love thy neighbor’ is from the book of Mark.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Jesus wasn’t a commie. He was a true-blue American.”

“He was from Israel.”

Dad rolls his eyes. “You know what the hell I mean. He wasn’t some bleeding-heart liberal. He was a man’s man. Jesus don’t like woke, boy, and neither do I.”

“Jesus fed the poor and healed the sick,” I say sheepishly, aware that it might earn me a black eye, but I’m at the end of my rope with Dad anyway. After experiencing four years of freedom, having to come back and listen to his hate has been unbearable. He spouts bigoted talking points like they’re scripture, and all I can do is bite my tongue and bide my time. It’s getting harder to do both. “He was the epitome of wokeness.”

Dad looks at Mom and cackles. My mother, who seems to be relieved that he’s aiming his hatred at me instead of her tonight, mirrors the action, leaning back in her chair and laughing loudly. For the first time in years, Dad takes my mother’s hand and gives it a quick squeeze. I can count on one hand the number of kind exchanges my mother and father have shared through my childhood. Each time, I walked away from the exchange feeling sick to my stomach. Kindness doesn’t suit my father.

They hold hands for a few moments before Dad finally shoves her hand away and turns his attention back to me. “I don’t want this queer shit in my house. Do you understand me? You’re going to take it outside and bury it. After that, we’re setting up a dating profile for you. We’re going to find you a girlfriend, come Hell or high water.”

My father has been pushing me to date a woman ever since I moved home. He’s floated the idea of dating apps before, but Father Daddy always talks him down from the ledge, telling him it could disrupt our (nonexistent) conversion therapy progress. The first time he had to put Dad in his place, Miles didn’t really seem worried about potentially hurting our (again, nonexistent) progress on my journey back to heterosexuality, per se. If anything, he seemed jealous. His jaw was clenched, working back and forth, the sound of his grinding teeth audible from a few feet away. I was surprised he didn’t pull out his cock and piss on me to mark his scent. That night, after I snuck into his bedroom and we cuddled up close in his bed, he told me I wasn’tever allowed to create a dating profile, because God had already hand selected someone for me. He didn’t say who that person was, but in his inebriated state, I think we both knew who he meant.

“But Pastor Brooks said—”

Dad slams the side of his fist against the table, making Mom and me jump. “I’m starting to think Pastor Brooks ain’t never going to heal you. In fact, I’m starting to think maybe he doesn’t evenwantto heal you. I see the way he looks at you sometimes. It ain’t right. I think he might be a little light in the loafers too.”

I dig my nails into my thigh under the table. I may not be an actual hitman like my boss, but if my father doesn’t shut his mouth when he’s talking shit about Miles, I might promote myself to the role.

“Pastor Brooks is happily married,” I say, making my voice as small and submissive as I can manage.

“That don’t mean he ain’t still sticking it where the sun don’t shine. That poor wife of his, probably having to bear the brunt of his betrayal.”

Better than bearing the brunt of his fist, I guess, but I don’t think that’s a topic Dad’s going to want to broach, considering everything he’s put Mom and me through over the years. I give my father a polite nod and excuse myself from the table, promising to get rid of my Gaga shirt.

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