One part desperation, two parts family issues, and about a thousand parts just needing some fucking attention for once lead me to call him “Daddy.” In hindsight, it may not have been my best move. It didn’t even occur to me that he would get all weird about it, or maybe it did. He was paying more attention to the dog, the door and the damn time than me anyway. But, I guess the “d” I was paying attention to doesn’t make me a saint either.

Why couldn’t he just agree with what I wanted sooner?

We met in a restaurant, a dimly-lit haven for the visually impaired flashlight collectors where we were both working, me for the summer, him for life.

He was training me, jet black hair bouncing as he walked, his face trailing freckles from the nose down to his Polo, like breadcrumbs left behind.

The restaurant isn’t where it all happened though. It was several weeks later. We were friends. I was only there for the summer and didn’t know anyone else.

After “dates,” meeting his friends, his family, and getting to know him—I realized there was more to the story than boy meets girl, they fall in love, get married etcetera. I wanted to fuck him. I wanted it so bad; I told his friends about it, even.

So, I started trying. He wasn’t interested at first. I think I had a boyfriend or something. Yeah, I did. That might be why he didn’t want to do anything with me.

I went to his house eventually, after trying to convince him to at least kiss me. I told him I wasn’t interested in my boyfriend anymore. That I loved him instead. It was all true. At least at the time. He told me he liked someone else too. I told him that we could do it on her lawn. He laughed at that one.

When I got to his house I was met by the dog and alabaster walls. Pure.

I saw myself in the mirror as I entered.

He squatted down on the couch and I jumped on his lap, waiting for him to make the first move. He was shaking and it reminded me of one of those little massage things with the three legs that feel good for about 3 minutes and then you throw it in your drawer and never use it again. The dog kept jumping on and off the couch from the solid wood floorboards. I think he was watching some TV show.

Then we made out. It really was nothing special, now that I am looking back on it. I don’t remember it being particularly good or particularly bad. Beige, like the color of the couch we made out on.

Oh, and I didn’t call him Daddy until later. That was once I left and decided maybe pushing him away would be a better option. I was back home with my boyfriend anyway. Summer was over. If this makes me sound like a bitch, it’s probably because I was. I know I was. How could I not be?