Still, not fully convinced that my heart and head agreed.I pulled my phone out and took a picture of the list, then inverted the colours, doing that CSI thing to enhance the text.
This time, there was no mistaking what I was looking at.This was a fuck list and my dad had paid just under three hundred pounds for sex.
THREE.HUNDRED.POUND!!!
I didn’t know what the going rate for sex was, but that seemed pricey to me.Especially when it looks like a blow job was being charged at eighty-five pounds?That had better of been some really fantastic sex to warrant that steep price tag.
Okay, hang on a mo, why was my first reaction that it was over-priced?And not the fact that my dad had clearly cheated on my mum with a sex worker?Let’s analyse that for a second, shall we?
Oh, let’s not delve into a psychoanalysis of why my reactions were so puzzling, or my disastrous love life, or my relationship with my mother.
Or that Dave was obviously her favourite, even though he was a fuck-up.So, what if I haven’t dated anyone since my dad died?
This was not about me.
Or my exploration into gay porn after coming across my dad’s browsing history.That wasn’t the point.What was, was that my approach was logical, factual, mature, and open-minded.
But let’s look at the first point.
Was I choosing to overlook his cheating because it was with another man, and not because it was with a woman?I pondered the question for a few minutes, mulling my feelings over.Whichever way I thought about it, I kept circling back to the fact that my father was more than likely gay, or bi, and that however much he cared about my mum, that she wasn’t able to give him everything he needed.He’d chosen to get married, whether that was to hide his sexuality, because that was the way things were.Or because he wanted a family of his own, and this was the only way to get it.Or he thought he could suppress this part of himself and live a half-life, never feeling free to be his real self.Those were all good reasons, but there was no way of knowing for sure what his were.I could ask Chris if he knew, but would Dad have confided in his childhood friend?Surely, he couldn’t have kept it hidden for that long?Afraid to share his secret.Then my brain flashed up the memory of Dad when he struggled to tell me he had cancer.How wrecked and tormented he looked, and so, so afraid of hurting me.Even now, after so many years, I could feel my throat tighten as a lump formed.My vision blurred around the edges as fresh tears welled up.Clenching my teeth, I willed the tears not to fall, even as my nose ran.Standing, I headed to my mum’s side of the bed, to her bedside table and the box of tissues she had there.Pulling out a tissue, I saw her mobile phone stuck in the side.At least that was one mystery solved.As for my dad’s, there were still questions I still needed answering.It didn’t change how I felt about him.I just wanted to better understand the man who wiped away my tears and looked in on me each night so that I had a deeper, fuller picture of who he was.And with each new piece, I was determined to figure out the puzzle.
ASHTON
Istared at the half-finished reel on my screen; the cursor blinking like it was judging me.The flat was quiet — too quiet — the kind of silence that made you aware of every little thing.The hum of the fridge.The tick of the radiator.The faint buzz of my laptop fan working overtime.
I took a sip of tea.Cold again.Why did I even bother making it hot?
I leaned back in my chair and rubbed my eyes.Editing was fine.Filming was fine.Even the admin was fine.But lately, I’d been getting this itch under my skin — this restless, nagging feeling that I was meant to be doing something else.Something more.
Not that I hated what I did.I didn’t.I liked the creativity.The control.The independence.The money didn’t hurt either.
But porn — even the soft, artsy kind — wasn’t forever.
I clicked open a new tab and typed “museum jobs London” into the search bar.Just to look.Just to see.
The listings were...depressing.“Three years’ experience.”“Master’s degree preferred.”“Volunteer roles available.”Right.Because unpaid labour was totally accessible when your rent cost more than your dignity.
Still, I scrolled.And scrolled.And scrolled.
I’d graduated with a first in Art History.I’d written essays that made my professors beam.I’d spent hours in galleries, sketching sculptures and analysing brushstrokes.I’d dreamed — stupidly, maybe — of working in a museum, handling artefacts, cataloguing pieces, being surrounded by history instead of lube and LED lights.
I closed the tab before the disappointment could settle too deep.
Maybe one day.Just...not today.
My phone buzzed.A notification from my website: a new subscriber.I smiled despite myself.It wasn’t glamorous, but it was mine.I’d built it from scratch.Learned the software.Designed the layout.Shot every photo.Edited every video.Paid my taxes like a responsible adult.
I wasn’t ashamed of it.Not anymore.
But I wanted more than this tiny flat and the constant hum of loneliness.More than being someone’s fantasy and no one’s reality.More than being the guy people wanted in private but never in public.
I wanted a future.A real one.
I pushed away from the desk and wandered into the kitchen, grabbing a Jammie Dodger from the packet Gavin had left on the counter.He’d called me a “hopeless romantic in denial” last week.I’d laughed it off, but he wasn’t wrong.
I wanted someone.Someone who didn’t flinch at what I did.Someone who didn’t treat me like a secret.Someone who didn’t see me as a kink or a risk.
Someone who sawme.
