Page 4 of Becoming His Perfect Daddy
He huffed, throwing his arms out in front of him. “I’ve never been with a trans dude, okay?” Thankfully, he’d lowered his voice, and no one was close enough to have heard him. “I wanted to try it.”
I just stared at him as the color returned to his face and heated to near surface-of-the-sun levels.
“Oh, shit. That was—”
“—insensitive at best and fetishizing at worst?” I shook my head, tossing my napkin on the table and pushing to my feet. His mouth was slightly open as if he couldn’t believe what had just come out of it.
At least we were on the same page about something.
“You know what? You’re not worth it. I really hope you do a lot of soul-searching and get some help, Jason. Bye.” Then I turned and walked out.
I stared into the distance as I waited for my rideshare, wondering what the hell had just happened and how it had happened so quickly. That was like zero-to-the-worst-date-ever in approximately one-point-six seconds. I should’ve known better than to hope a date would work out in my favor; even though I thought I’d vetted him online, Jason was just the last in a long line of guys proving that men couldn’t be trusted.
Then I heard a voice behind me. “Cameron?”
Oh, hell.I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of turning around, but the bastard came around me anyway, moving into my line of sight.Why the fuck do these rideshares always take forever when I need them?
“Cameron, can I talk to you? Please?”
I stared straight ahead, but he apparently took my non-answer as consent.
“I just wanted to say I’m sorry. I don’t know why . . . I’m not sure . . .” He huffed out a breath that turned to steam in the cold. “Look, I know that was really shitty of me to say. But—”
“No.” I cut him off with a hand in the air. “Listen, Jason. Thatwasreally shitty of you to say. Period. I’m not here to make you feel better about yourself. That’s not my job. If you’re feeling guilty, that’s on you. It’s your job to make yourself into a better person—hell, maybe even befriend a trans person thenlistenwhen they talk so this doesn’t happen again.”
With his eyes downcast as if he’d been properly chastised, he looked downright pitiful, but I meant what I’d said. I was not responsible for propping up an insecure gay man’s ego.
I sighed just as my rideshare mercifully pulled up to the curb. I took a step toward it before muttering over my shoulder without making eye contact. “Be good, Jason.” Then I climbed in the back and was on my way home.
With yet another incredibly terrible date behind me. My excitement was destroyed, my energy used up, my hope all but gone. Yep, this whole thing was definitely hopeless.
Guess I’d been right. Again.
As I stepped out of the car into the crisp night air and dragged myself up the front walk to my cute three-bedroom Craftsman cottage, I sighed again, trying to tell myself it wasn’t that bad, I’d find someone else, tomorrow was a new day, there were other gay fish in the sea, etcetera, etcetera.
It wasn’t working. Men couldn’t be trusted in romantic relationships, period. A string of asshole ex-boyfriends and transphobic dates had finally proven that, and I wasn’t going to be played as a fool a second longer.
So, yeah. I was so fucking done.
***
By the time I had changed into my softest pair of pajama pants and a worn T-shirt, a bone-deep defeat was suffusing my being. The pursuit of true love had burned me yet again, and I was officially over it.
I usually turned to what I always did when life got tough: writing. Fiction, generally; gay romance, specifically. My stories were what kept me going, kept me from getting too jaded. Though I had to admit to being crazy jealous of my characters most of the time.
Writing was my happy place, my sacred practice, my therapy. Because I knew that no matter what my characters went through, they’d end up together. Maybe it’s what kept me from being a complete cynic.
Or maybe it was all just wishful thinking.
Truthfully, I wrote romance as a way to figure out what I truly wanted, to build my dream life. With every tale I wove, Idiscovered more about what I desired until I had formed a near-perfect picture of the life I was destined to have.
I knew I was going to meet someone eventually—though the universe was going to have to hit me over the head with them at this point because I was over looking on my own—and what he would look like, the type of clothes he would wear, how tall he was, even how big his dick was. I mean, I knew every single detail didn’t matter, but a guy could dream, right? I even knew that we would date for a respectable amount of time before he’d move in here with me, because, of course, he would fall in love with my beautiful home almost as hard as he’d fallen in love with me. Then we’d get married a couple of years later and be plant dads.
I wasn’t unreasonable—he could pick the type of plants we’d buy.
I sighed as I sat down at my desk and pulled open my laptop. I’d been fighting with how to start this story, give it a really good opening scene, and thanks to failed date number four hundred eighty-three and the resulting existential crisis, nothing was coming to mind. I even hovered my fingers over the keys, hoping inspiration would strike by the simple act of starting to type, but nope. Nothing. My muse was silent, and I just stared at the cursor blinking on the blank page.
Fuck.
