I find that they often want, desperately, to feel sexy even when their bodies—graying, sagging, failing—tell them not to. They may have daddy issues; I usually have no idea. Tim was three years old when his dad left the family. He grew up on a farm near Bakersfield, a city in Southern California. I don't know the exact details of why his dad left, because Tim never told me. I can only imagine the reasons why: Pathological wanderlust. An irresponsibly-timed crisis of manhood. A revelation that being a dad just wasn't for him. Tim's mother, a housewife, forced herself to get a secretary job to support Tim and his siblings.
She is now decaying in a nursing home, steps away from where she raised two children on her own. He designs theater sets now.
His hair is red, but it was blonde when he was young. I know this because, shortly after we start dating, he shows me a picture of himself aged 11 or He's beaming, surrounded by balloons that look like penises. Every year, Tim splits his time between San Francisco and Prague. He may work in theater, but he doesn't dress like a theater guy, thank God. He has dinosaur-sized gauges—one black, the other green—that fall off when he's asleep.
Most often, he wears a dull orange flannel.
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He's barely 5'9". Tim drives stick and makes it look like a fucking dance. On our first date, he drives us to a Thai restaurant a few blocks from his apartment. We have a lot to talk about.
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I am drawn to his storied gay life; he is amused by the charmed pleasantries of my famous school. Tim grew up in the era when all my favorite movies were made, so we have conversations that I've never had with guys my age.
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About how Liza Minnelli really was a gifted actress before she mutated into a gay icon. How Mickey Rourke had real talent before his face started falling off. Afterward, we go to his apartment.
We share a bottle of wine, and he asks if he can kiss me. I say yes.
It's a tempting skin to slip into—to pretend I'm just some uncultured gay kid. He assumes I am basically devoid of taste. I wake up with him the next morning and we spend the day together. We grab coffee nearby. He drives to Rainbow and we get groceries. He buys me some new earrings; I just pierced my ears a few months ago and now they're infected.
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He makes some home remedy for me to medicate my lobes with. He's taking care of me. We see each other most weekends, and our dates proceed like clockwork.
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He treats me to dinner. When we get back to his apartment, he makes me listen to his favorite operas or audiobooks of Renata Adler essays. I play dumb. I pretend that I haven't heard of them before. I just know she's smart. I bet you'll really love this. On campus, I'm constantly trying to prove my intellect to the people around me. I fear that everyone's smarter than me, that I'm just fronting.
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But I have nothing to prove to Tim. To him, I'm just another kid of immigrant parents who did well on his SATs. Perhaps, he thinks, I'll morph into someone with a refined palate one day. He likes to think he's found this potential in me, and he's the one who will bring it out. I play along. It's a well-earned vacation from the electric stress of school. To him, I'm the prettiest twink in the world. When he calls me beautiful, it's impossible not to believe. His feelings seem unconditional, just as any father's love should be.
We fall asleep together. We wake up. He cooks something for me as I do my homework. He takes me on errands: He orders me around. He gets fake-mad when I can't do simple things like find the aisle where the soap is. When I do something right, like help him bag the groceries or tell him I'm game to let his gay neighbor be "our third" tonight, he tells me I'm a good boy. For a few weeks, it's cozy and surreal to play the son of a man who's not my real father, especially when my real one lives across the country.
It's actually a lot of fun to play pretend when you're I throw myself into a distraction from the stressful rhythms of life in college. This whole thing is a ruse. He can't really be my dad. My skin is brown; his isn't. It's like Halloween.
He's the daddy, I'm the son. It's our private game.
But when I'm back on campus with my friends, I speak about Tim with stupid glee. I tell them how special he makes me feel. He's the first man to shower me with full, unadulterated attention since my balls dropped. Other guys make me feel like shit, telling me I'm cute enough but nothing like the gorgeous white gay Adonises on campus.
Not Tim. When he calls me beautiful, he infuses it with a sincerity that's impossible not to believe. We spend that summer apart. I'm doing an internship in DC; he's in San Francisco working his big boy job.