“You do love Daddy, don’t you baby?” “Yes, yes. Of course” I smile as I feel that warm glow start to blossom. I lay the table, and dish up dinner. We both sit down and start to eat. “It’s delicious baby. You’re such a good cook. Just like your Mum was.” I smile. My Dad loved my Mum so much. I love that I match up to her. We eat dinner, with a little chit chat. Then I clean up. “It’s late, time for bed.” says Dad, and heads upstairs to bed. I follow shortly after. I head towards my room, then remember Dad’s moved my things into the main bedroom. I turn and in a few steps I’m in the master bedroom. “I’ve put your things here” Dad says pointing to closet on the right side of the room. I look through the drawers, searching for my pyjamas. “Um, I can’t seem to find my pjs” I say, turning to find my Dad naked. “You don’t need those now baby”I undress, watched by Dad; all the while he is smiling at me. “You’re beautiful baby, just like your Mum.” I smile, I like the thought of being like my. 1990s suburban America. It was animal. Social selection. There’d be regular ass-kickings. Kids in the hallways kicked, punched from behind. Group beatings in bathrooms. Faces in toilets. Faces slammed into lockers. Wedgies. Purple nurples. Ears flicked. Seats yanked out.We rarely participated in such barbarism or fought or picked on others, but we would fight back when necessary, and we’d mostly lose, catch a beatdown.Because we were fags.Spazzes. Weirdos. Kids with fucked up haircuts, kids who wore out of fashion clothes, shopped at Goodwill stores and changed clothes when our clothes somehow became in fashion.We were fags.We read tattered secondhand sci-fi books, horror books by Stephen King, and we wrote shitty poetry, graffitied dicks and balls, tags, band names and haikus on bathroom stalls and played in shitty basement bands full of out-of-tune, distorted guitars, off-tempo drumming and shrieking tone deaf vocals; our punk covers so horrendous they’d make Kurt Cobain want to.
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