Page 7 of Slay the Gay Away, Daddy

I bury Gaga beneath an old tree by the fence, hoping maybe in her infinite wonder, she might spread some of her sparkle amongst the soil, giving birth to a new tree. A tree to stand proudly, more fabulous than any tree to ever come before. Or maybe she’ll just wind up as worm food, if worms eat poly-cotton blend.

Once Mom and Dad are asleep, I sneak across the street and climb onto my best friend’s roof. There’s a trick to Miles’ attic window. To open it from the outside, you have to tug it to theright, then lift as hard as you can. Well, as hard as I can, at least. I’m not really a fitness model or anything, so it might not be as difficult for other guys as it is for me, but that’s hardly the point. Either way, I’m always huffing and puffing and panting by the time I’ve finally gotten it open.

Once I’m inside, I stick to the walls like a shadow, the attic dark, almost pitch black. My phone screen works as a light source, but with boxes stacked to the ceiling, it still feels like I’m starring in an episode of Hoarders.

Miles’ house is over a hundred years old, built in the early nineteen hundreds. The floorboards creak and groan with each step I take, but he doesn’t question the sound anymore. In the attic, there’s a small gap in the floorboards beneath the chimney’s bricks that the room is built around. That’s my destination.

It’s also my creation.

Allow me to explain.

Last month, Miles took his wife on vacation, leaving me all alone without our nightly cuddles for six days straight. Oh, sure, he apologized until he was blue in the face beforehand, but that didn’t stop the asshole from sending me endless selfies of him and Mallory sightseeing in San Antonio. In one of the pictures, she had her arm around his waist, hugging Miles like she had all right to do so. I mean, yeah, she’s his wife, but he’s mine. My Miles. My Father Daddy. Needless to say, I was furious, so I broke into his house just to feel some form of connection with him. After masturbating to the scent of dried sweat in a pair of his dirty underwear, I went snooping in his closet. While I didn’t find anything sordid, I did see a crack of light flickering in from above. He’d left the light on when he grabbed a suitcase for their trip. Once I found the right floorboard in the attic, I went to work. The boards were nailed snugly, and it took me ages to get three of them loose enough to lift and drop through, wheneverthe desire to see him became unbearable. Up until then, I’d been throwing rocks at his window to let him know I was there, and then he’d have to rush downstairs, risking waking Mallory.

After making my makeshift trapdoor, I drilled small holes in his bedroom wall so I could observe him from the closet. The dark paint on his walls masks the holes, and I’m able to use them every night to make sure he’s ready for me. Tonight is no different.

As I gaze in through the peepholes, I catch sight of him. He’s across the room staring vacantly at his phone. While glazed over eyes are an indication that his nightly sleeping pills have kicked in, there’s another telltale sign I wait for. Father Daddy taps his screen a few times, and then I hear the sound of Miles’ beautiful voice.

“Dare-bear,” he murmurs. I know exactly which photo he’s looking at, because it’s the same one he stares vacantly at every night as I enter his room. We took the photo a few months ago while he was preaching to residents of Tallulah outside the Pick-n-Save. In the picture, we’re both drenched with sweat, and our shirts cling to every nook and crook of our bodies. My nipple ring is fully visible in the image. A few times, in his nightly drugged state, Miles has told me he wants to take the barbell between his teeth and tug. Obviously, I haven’t allowed it, because I’m not going to fuck him while he’s drugged. The mental image did become my go-to jerk off fantasy for a few weeks, though.

The empty space beside him in bed is calling my name, so I grab the doorknob and twist. Mallory no longer shares his bedroom, thankfully. She sleeps downstairs in the guest room, leaving our love nest untouched. I know this all sounds terribly problematic, what with the breaking and entering and sleeping with a man who is clearly under the influence of a night-time sleep aid, but he’s the one who started this. He’s the one who downloaded Grindr to ensure I was still on the straight andnarrow, messaged me demanding I come to his house right that second, and proceeded to slam his lips against mine the moment he let me in. It was the single greatest moment of my life. I’d waited all my life for that kiss. We spent all night together, cuddled up close, me telling him how much I’ve always loved him, him telling me these feelings were new, but they were strong as steel.

The next day at church, he acted like nothing happened. He pretended he didn’t remember a single second of our night together. I figured he was just trying to keep our relationship hidden from the rest of the congregants, but then he didn’t mention it during our conversion therapy session either.

Over the next two weeks, we continued our act, sharing what I assumed were secret glances when we saw each other at church. Two weeks after our whirlwind romance began, it ended just as quickly. After fucking me into the mattress, Miles asked me to stay the night. It was the first time he offered, and I wasn’t going to miss my chance to fall asleep in his arms. After spending six glorious hours cuddling against him, I woke up to find him staring at me in horror. He was yelling and hissing at me like I was a goddamn deviant, accusing me of molestation. Molestation!

I told him over and over that he invited me to stay the night, but he just stared at me, the words not registering. It wasn’t until I pulled out my phone and showed him the least lascivious selfie I could find—one we took in his bed, fully clothed, making silly faces—that he finally sighed.

Then he broke my heart.

When he told me he’d been taking a new sleeping medication that had a temporary memory loss side effect, my heart cracked right down the middle. He remembered nothing of our tryst, and I had to play it off like it never happened. Like I’d never admitted my feelings for him, and that he hadn’t admittedhis feelings for me. In the end, I lied to save his heart from aching like mine, telling him he’d asked me to stay the night to console him because of his marital woes. He then spent thirty minutes recounting the time he took his pill, drove down to the McDonalds on Highway 80, broke in, cooked himself a Big Mac, and drove back home. I began hiding his car keys every night, tucking them away in various places as I leave for the night, before the pill wears off. I won’t allow him to inadvertently kill himself over a fucking Big Mac of all things.

Glancing through the peephole, I take a deep breath, preparing myself for my favorite part of the day. I exit the closet, my eyes lock on his, and my heart races as a smile stretches across his face.

“Darren? What are you doing here?” He blinks, closing his eyes a little tighter each time until he’s finally just sitting on his bed with eyes slammed shut. He does this every night, and it’s always my least favorite part of our nightly visits. He looks scared and confused, and more than a little disoriented. Part of me thinks I should just stay away from him while he’s in this condition, but I’ve tried it before. He just blows up my phone until I finally answer his call, then pleads for me to come over. He tried to break into my home once, nearly cracking his skull as he climbed onto the roof over the garage so he could crawl through my window.

“You’re okay,” I whisper, because that usually does the trick. Sure enough, he blinks a few more times before every trace of worry and confusion falls like a stage curtain. “I’m right here, baby.”

“Dare-bear,” he practically purrs, dropping his phone and holding his arms out invitingly. As I shuffle over, I kick off my shoes and climb in beside him. “You look sad. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” I shrug, but I’m pretty sure my sniffle gives me away. “Everything.” I look up at him and force a smile. “It’s better now. I’ve got everything handled.”

His sleepy eyes widen. “Yeah?” Pulling me even closer, he presses a soft kiss to my head. “Did your dad say something to you again?” His grip tightens around my hip, almost painfully so, but that’s okay. I think I kind of like the pain. “Did he touch you?”

“He didn’t hit me or anything. He found something I hid in my closet, and he laid into me pretty bad. I had a Lady Gaga shirt hidden behind my other clothes on the rack, and he went snooping through my stuff and found it.”

“He doesn’t have any right going through your things.”

“I know,” I agree. “But he did, and I can’t rewind time. It’s handled though. I buried it out back.”

“Wouldn’t that be great,” Miles whispers, his voice near, though the words sound distant. It’s like he’s speaking them to someone else, but we’re all alone in the room. “Wouldn’t it be wonderful to rewind your life to a fixed point and undo the things you regret most.”

“I guess,” I say, shrugging. “But I don’t think I’d waste my do-over on a t-shirt selection.” I bite my lip, staring at him as I build up my courage. “I’d rewind to the day I left for college.”

“Why?”

“I wrote you a letter before I left,” I admit, knowing he won’t remember this in the morning. “I told you about my feelings, and that I wanted you to come with me.”

He looks at me with a mixture of curiosity and something else I can’t quite place. Anger? No. Never. Not directed at me, at least. Could it be regret? Probably not. I’ve been studying every expression Miles has for the past twenty-plus years, and I’ve never seen this one. Finally, he asks, “Why didn’t you send it?”

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