My Dad Confronted Me On My Obsession

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People are into… some strange things… cars, animals… sometimes bees, but let’s not take inspiration from the Bee Movie, don’t do that, that’s not a valid thing. Some are really extreme and others are more vanilla, which is totally okay. I don’t have a plethora amount of interests regarding that, but man… I have no shame is saying what I’m into, but some are well received and others are not. I can’t help what I feel or how I feel it. It’s all around my house. I see it everywhere. I don’t know what to do about it. It feels so wrong, but so right at the same time. But what am I supposed to say to everyone? How am I supposed to come out with what I like? With what gets me on? And off. I don’t usually tell anyone this, but… I have a collection. Hidden in a box under my bed inside of another box. Sometimes I open it to smell inside. Then I quickly close it and pretend nothing ever happened. My family doesn’t know. I always ask them to buy me more every time we go out. ‘What happened to the ones we just bought you?’ They ask. Every time. Little do they know where they go. Only I have that sacred knowledge. You know the feeling of adrenaline when you get into a fight? But the adrenaline stays in your stomach? That’s the feeling I get. But like, more.








I was exposed one day. Of all people, by my father. The worst person that could possibly discover my secret. He was my polar opposite. Where I was open-minded and saw the bigger picture, he believed things had to be a specific way, and only focused on what concerned him. He didn’t tell me he discovered it until we were all sat around the dinner table one night. It was a casual evening. My family was there. My mother, my father, my two sisters, one brother, my aunt, and grandmother. Unlike some people’s family, my relatives are all young, hot, alive, and don’t have diabetes. No shade. Anyways, we were all eating a potluck dinner, because my mom can’t cook even if her life depended on it, and my father doesn’t believe in cooking, so. We made all of the relatives do the work instead. It was nice. We were all talking--not about politics or gay marriage because we all know where that goes. Straight down to hell just like the gays, amirite? The aults were all mingling with each other and occasionally asked me a question, to which I couldn’t answer because I had two chicken legs inside of my mouth. Gotta get that practice in, right ladies?





Then, the fated, dreaded question. My aunt who was my mother’s sister turned to me, and not my siblings, because screw me, right? The words catapulted out of her mouth faster than the Anglo-Zanzibar War ended. (For those of you who don’t know, the Anglo-Zanzibar War was a conflict between the United Kingdom and Zanzibar Sultanate in 1896, and lasted between 38 and 45 minutes. Longer than your man does in bed.) Back to my bleak, miserable first-person experience that is my life. ‘Do you have a boyfriend?’. The question turned heads. All eyes are on me. I can feel my palms begin to sweat, knees weak, arms are heavy--sorry, got sidetracked. My parents leaned forward, desperate to know if there’s any chance of me succeeding and getting a life. My siblings raise their brows at me, for they, too, wonder when the hell I’m going to leave the house. My grandmother is waiting with bated breath. ‘Please let it be a boy!’ She’s thinking, because she’s one of those people who we cut out from our Pride-friendly hearts and minds and then get mad at us for not inviting her back for Thanksgiving dinner. I let out a shaky breath to calm my heart. ‘Easy’ I think, ‘It’s a simple two letter word.’ The word gets stuck in my throat like a piece of corn between teeth. I’m sweating through my shirt. My face feels hot, and it’s almost as if I travelled back to 1858 and contracted Scarlet Fever.


‘No.’ The word slips out of my mouth like a stick of butter on a hot, metal handrail. My grandmother is perplexed. My aunt isn’t surprised. My siblings are disappointed. My mother laughs at me and my failure of a life. My father just looks at me with one brow cocked. Aimed, loaded, and ready to fire the question that begins to unravel the yarn ball holding together my relationships to everyone. ‘Is there anything else you like?’ His emphasis is not a good sign. He knows. He knows I know. I know he knows I know he knows. It’s a constant back and forth. Like a cat with one of those home-made whack-a-moles. I’m showering in sweat. Everyone notices. They rush to get my towels, but it’s too late. I slide out of my chair and land in a puddle of dismay and depression at their feet. They’re screaming and trying to mold me back into the person I was.

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