The box showed up on our doorstep a week before Thanksgiving. We were confused. It couldn’t possibly have been the prep-by-step Thanksgiving dinner we ordered. It was way too early, and the box wasn’t nearly heavy enough.
“Do you think we got scammed?” I asked my boyfriend Paul.
“What do you mean we, Mr. Subscription Delivery Service Addict?” he said with a smirk. “I’m not the one who ordered it. I told you I’d be happy with pizza and beer.”
We’d done pizza and beer for two consecutive lockdown Thanksgivings. I was ready for something special, but neither of us was a great cook. I wanted premeasured ingredients and a simple chart to follow. Thanksgiving-in-a-box was the answer, or so I thought.
Norman parked his gray SUV in front of the rundown storefront and then lifted his sunglasses to get a better look at the surroundings. A feeling of unease rose in his gut. It occurred to him that this whole thing could have been a setup, but it was impossible to tell. The building’s windows were all papered over, and aside from an old camper that looked like it had been abandoned for months, the parking lot was empty.
“Are you sure this is right, Dave?” he asked, turning to the passenger riding with him. “This place looks deserted. Check the group text again.”
The five-hour drive to Bearden’s lake house got off to an uneventful start. As soon as they piled into Ted’s SUV, Matteo put his earbuds in and leaned his seat back. The younger hunk was asleep and snoring before they even got onto the highway. As relieved as Ted had been when Matteo agreed to come along, he grew more and more anxious with each passing mile. After an hour on the road, he was even questioning the wisdom of his decision. The lie had gotten so far out of hand that Ted was bringing a stranger to a weekend at his boss’ house, and despite Matteo’s initial acceptance of Ted’s offer, there was no guarantee that he would agree to also play the role of Ted’s son for the next three days.
It didn’t help Ted’s anxiety that Matteo was mind-numbingly hot. More than once, Ted’s attention wandered from the road ahead to the sleeping stud next to him, especially once he stretched out in the passenger’s seat and put his ripped body on full display. Even if Matteo played along, would Ted be able to? He would have to be on his best behavior, lest his boss catch him stealing glances at the hot younger guy who would be masquerading as his son.
As usual, when the uplink terminated at the end of the day, the first thing I heard was the shriek of data noise in my head. I looked at my surroundings. It was nighttime, and I was alone sitting on a park bench in a neighborhood I didn’t recognize. I was still wearing the printed clothes I’d received that morning—a tight white T-shirt with DAD printed in block letters on the left breast and a pair of equally snug dark shorts. My entire body was drenched in sweat, which made my clothes cling to my skin. I was also holding a leash, with a golden retriever sitting obediently at my feet at the other end.
That’s weird, I thought. If the project is over, why do I still have this dog?
True to the confidentiality agreement I’d signed earlier that day, I had absolutely zero memories of the nature of the single-day project, or even anything I’d done that day. As the data noise quieted down inside my head, I waited for confirmation that Synaptica had processed my payment and the post-assignment instructions for how to arrange transportation home.
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 always wanted to work for ThinkCorp because of their flashy slogan: New and Different Every Day. They weren’t kidding. No two days were alike, and I loved it that way.
Occasionally, I’d get an assignment that lasted a week or two, but ThinkCorp only put me on those out of necessity. My demographic profile and skills inventory were much better suited to single-day projects. Heh, or so I was told.
I used to get anxious about what each day’s project would be. When I first started, I would stay up late so I could be at my workstation at 3:14 a.m. precisely, when new ThinkCorp assignments were pushed out to the field. After about six months on the job, once I’d gotten the hang of things and received positive feedback on my projects, that changed. I started to enjoy the uncertainty and the surprise of receiving my instructions each morning.
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.
Out in the real world, I was usually invisible. I preferred it that way. When no one is paying attention to you, there’s no one to disappoint. No one makes your life miserable just because they’re bored and they’ve decided to make you their free entertainment. At my job, I was just another junior copywriter, one of a dozen laboring away in identical cubicles. At my favorite bookstore, I was just some brainy nerd who knew everything there was to know about the Diet of Worms. In my group of friends, I was the quiet one who always showed up on time and who always left behind extra cash to supplement everyone else’s embarrassingly small tips. In the real world, I was ordinary and unremarkable. Maybe even forgettable.
But at home, I was Master Paul, the young, dominant owner of three hot, submissive, older men. Every morning I woke up to one of them gently kissing Me awake, while another ironed My work clothes and the third prepared breakfast. Everywhere else, I was just another mild mannered twenty something with too many student loans and a goatee that never quite grew in right. But here, I am the Master, and what I say goes. They’re all 20 years or more My senior, and each of them is a respected professional in their field. But at home, they’re My property.
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 can’t believe it’s only been six months. There’s a part of me that is grateful You’ve changed my appearance so drastically, Son. At least I can go out in public without ex-friends and ex-colleagues noticing me. The beard and all the beef helps a lot, but I hate the way You dress me up and force me to act when You take me out, Son. It’s humiliating. No one really believes I’m Your dad.
But I say it, loudly and proudly wherever we go. Why does that get You off so much, Son? It’s perverted and twisted, and I hate it so much. Like yesterday at the Waffle House, when I refused the menu and said, “I’ll let my hot Son order for both of U/us. He knows what’s best for His dumb ole dad.” Why does that turn You on? And why is it starting to turn me on?
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.
People have started to recognize me in public—at the grocery store, at the gym, even in the drive-thru. I used to enjoy the attention, and there’s a tiny part of me that still does, I guess. But ever since Son found out, it’s not been the same.
It started with just some short videos on Instagram of me doing work around the house. I didn’t even know Son was recording me doing chores, raking leaves, and working out in the garage. When I started gaining a following, He had me do other stuff on camera. Embarrassing stuff. The most popular video so far was of me dropping a birthday cake on the floor and then falling face first into it. It was staged, but Son said I did a good job making it look real.
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.
When I returned to full awareness, I was on my knees. This part was not uncommon. Son often switched me off when He had some new programming to install in my head. Sometimes, I would wake up hours, even days later, in a different location, wearing different clothes. There was always a moment of disorientation before Son’s programming activated, but in a minute or two the installation would be complete, and the new information would override anything I’d previously thought or believed.
The difference this time was that there was no new programming. I knelt on the cold pavement waiting for the new thoughts to fill my head, but nothing did.
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.
The atmosphere at Buzzwords was not what Fred was used to. Everything from the music to the menu to the uncomfortable chairs screamed too many things to him. Too trendy. Too cool. Too youthful. Easily the oldest person in the café by two decades, Fred felt like an anachronism and like everyone in the place was staring at him, judging him. “Who’s the old guy at the corner table?” he was certain they were thinking. All he wanted to do was leave.
And yet he remained seated at the table by the restrooms, just as he’d been instructed to. Every few seconds, Fred checked his phone, but there was no message. His breath caught in his chest as he re-read Sir’s instructions.
