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 was in a hurry, and it showed. The pretzels and potato chips were strewn haphazardly about the plate. I’d spilled some dip trying to do too many things at once. The whole thing was a mess, and I was running out of time.
“Hey, dad! Where’s the food?”
I tried to mop my sweaty brow with the bottom of my t-shirt, but it was too tight and too short to reach.
“Yeah, Matt’s dad, we’re hungry out here!”
Dammit. I didn’t realize how slow I’d been. Son’s friends were already here. My mouth was dry, and my voice cracked when I answered. “Right away, Son.”
“Hurry up,” Son said. “The game’s already started.”
I placed everything I’d prepared on the tray, mentally crossing each item off the list my Son gave me earlier. I didn’t forget anything this time, so there’d be no penalty. I hoped.
As I rounded the corner into the living room, my face flushed with embarrassment. Son and His two best friends all sat turned around on the sofa, watching me as I entered. God, why can’t they just ignore me like they used to? I thought. I hated being on display like this, but at the same time, I felt a telltale twitching in the pouch of my maple leaf briefs. I hated it, but I loved it, too.
“Here you go, gentlemen,” I said. “Let me know if there’s anything else You need.”
“Your accent is getting better, Matt’s dad,” my Son’s friend said. I wasn’t allowed to know Their names.
I set the tray down and bowed my head. “Thank you, Sir. Son has me seeing the dialect coach twice a week.”
Son’s other friend reached forward and grabbed a handful of pretzels, messing the plate up even more. “Why bother with accent lessons, Matt? Who cares what Your dad sounds like?”
“I care,” my Son said, spreading His legs and placing His hand against His bulge. The gentle tapping of His fingertips against the stretched denim made me zone out. I couldn’t look away. I didn’t want to.
“And you care, too, don’t you, dad?”
“Yes, Son,” I said, my eyes fixed on the big mound of manhood between my Son’s legs. “I live here now. I must fit in.”
“Why, dad?”
My right hand drifted slowly over to the crotch of my briefs, and I felt a rush of mind-numbing pleasure when my palm made contact with the maple leaf.
“Your dad was all wrong,” I droned. My thumb slid back and forth over the red maple leaf that contained my modest dad bulge. “A loud, obnoxious American. I need to be fixed, Son. I will be fixed, Son. I will be Your perfect Canadian dad.”
I don’t know how long I stood there, locked in tunnel vision on my hot Son’s bulge, but when I came to, it was dark outside, and the house was empty. The living room was a mess of dishes and leftover snacks. I reluctantly took my hand off my maple leaf and started tidying up.
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