This is a repost from a Tumblr series that I called “My perfect dad.” I’m preserving these older stories and continuing to write new ones available on this site first.

I never thought I would be one of those guys. I don’t even want to say the word. It’s so embarrassing. I was successful and independent. I did whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted, and I answered to no one. 

Damn, how much things can change in just a few months. It started so small, so innocuously, that I didn’t even really notice. A cup of coffee here, an after-work drink there. I have a comfortable life. Well, I had a comfortable life. Treating Him to dinner out once or twice a week barely registered. 

I can’t believe I actually got a thrill—I got turned on—by spending my money on Him. When the check came at dinner, I didn’t even look at it; I just set my credit card down. When we were walking past a shoe store and my Son pointed to a pair of work boots and said, “I like those,” my mind and body went on autopilot. Son wanted something. I would buy it for Him. I needed to buy it for Him. I must buy it for Him. 

I’m such a pathetic—damn, I can’t even say it. If I say it, I know it’ll become the permanent truth for me. I kid myself into thinking I have any other future ahead except to spend all my money on my Son. No, it’s not really my money. It never was. My Son deserves a comfortable life that I pay for. Happily. Pathetically. 

That’s why He sleeps in my old room and I’m down here, locked away in the basement. Sometimes He only comes down here to show me what He’s buying online with my credit cards. Sometimes He puts my old cell phone up against my rubber bulge so I can feel the text alert vibration when my credit card is charged. I love it. I hate it. I love my Son. I hate myself. 

I used to never pay attention to bank statements or credit card balances because I always had more than enough. Now I never pay attention to them because I’m forbidden from accessing my own accounts. I can’t even remember my login info, though I’m sure my Son has changed them several times over. 

When I hear my Son’s big, heavy boots coming down the stairs, I know it’s to show off something He’s bought with my money. I hate it, and I can’t wait to see what new thing my sexy Son has gotten for himself. He deserves everything. I deserve nothing. 

Damn. I am a cash dad. Take my money, please, Son. 

Want to read more works like this? Send Me a tip as a way to help support this and other writing endeavors.