“That’s normal, right?” I know a number of Broadway and off-Broadway producers and playwrights. Mostly through work, though I typically represent the producers and less frequently the creatives, but I’m also a dyed-in-the-wool theater buff. It’s why I got into entertainment law in the first place.
I keep an eye on the emerging and avant-garde stuff, too. Last year, for Silas’s birthday, I took the boys to a production of Euripides’ The Bacchae in Harlem that Lance called deeply fucked up. He wasn’t entirely wrong about that, but Silas and I loved it.
I suspected it was part of the inspiration for his musical, but now I’m wondering if that came from somewhere else.
“It’s a little on the nose, isn’t it?”
He stuffs the other half piece of bacon in his mouth and asks around it, “What is?”
“Choosing Oedipus and making him queer. It’s almost like you have daddy issues or something.”
I wink at him to show that I’m not kink-shaming him, but I’m genuinely curious. “How did you come up with the idea?”
I think I’m actually asking when he came up with the idea. As in, before or after Lance first brought him to meet me? Before or after he realized he was attracted to me?
I suppose it’s not really important. I’ve met enough writers who are completely normal, yet pen the wildest, weirdest stuff, that I know the imagination is limitless. Not everything a person writes is necessarily autobiographical.
Silas shrugs. “I read the original play in high school. I mean, obviously not the original ancient Greek, but one of those dry translations that was required in my AP English class.”
I dimly remember those days. I don’t think my high school English classes required Oedipus Rex, but I recall we read Antigone and The Odyssey and Euripides’ Medea. Can’t say that I was ever inspired to rewrite any of those stories. But then again, I’m not a playwright and Silas is.
“The original story is so dumb, you know?” Silas is saying. “I mean, it’s all because of this prophecy that Oedipus’s parents receive when he’s born. That he’ll grow up to kill his father. So, naturally, his father orders his mother to kill him.” Silas rolls his eyes and I chuckle. “But she can’t, because you know, she’s not a monster.”
“Monster enough to give the baby to a servant to kill, if I recall correctly,” I say.
“Fair point,” Silas agrees. “But the servant doesn’t kill baby Oedipus and instead gives him to a shepherd, who gives him to the king of Corinth who doesn’t have any kids of his own. Anyway, my whole point is that if Oedipus’s parents had ignored the stupid prophecy, Oedipus would have grown up knowing who his parents were. Probably would’ve become king after his father died of old age or whatever. Definitely wouldn’t have fucked his mother.”
“In your version, he fucks his father,” I observe. The whole concept sounds ludicrous, but I saw his student production and it actually works. Somehow, Silas managed to bring the classic Greek tragedy to life in a way that was both innovative and entertaining.
“Yeah,” Silas says with a cheeky grin.
Which brings us back to my original question. “And you want to fuck your almost father-in-law.”
“Yeah,” Silas says, only this time, there’s a shadow of uncertainty on his face. Then it clears a little. “Oh, is this a life-imitating-art kind of thing? Is that what you’re asking?”
“Or art imitating life?”
Silas looks thoughtful for a moment, then shrugs. “I dunno. Does it matter?”
It shouldn’t, I suppose. What difference does it make if Silas wrote his play before or after he realized he was attracted to me? It isn’t as if the order of operations makes what we’ve been doing—or will do—together any less complicated.
He still came here to get revenge on his cheating ex. My son.
And I’m going along with it. I haven’t fucked his virgin ass—yet—but I’ve lost track of how many times I’ve made him come and he’s been here less than twenty-four hours.
Silas pushes the rest of his eggs around his plate with his last piece of bacon. “Do you not want me to call you Daddy anymore?”
He’s trying to sound nonchalant, I can tell, and I kick myself for making him doubt how much I want that. How much I want him.
I reach out and put my hand over his. “I do want that, Silas. You were right last night that I’ve wanted to do all kinds of things with you, even when you were with Lance.”
I’ve never let myself fantasize about them—much—because it was never going to happen. Until now.
“But I don’t want you to call me that unless it’s what you want, too. Don’t do it just because you think it’s what I want.”
It’s been a long time since I was in the kink scene. It’s easy enough to find a young man on Grindr who likes it a bit rough or who doesn’t mind a spanking when I’m in the mood for that. But I’ve never asked a hookup to call me Daddy. And I’ve never had someone I wanted to call my boy. It’s a lifestyle I haven’t made the time to pursue.
Until Silas said the word and made me wonder what I’ve been missing.
