To him, I'm the prettiest twink in the world. When he calls me beautiful, it's impossible not to believe. His feelings seem unconditional, just as any father's love should be. Tim was three years old when his dad left the family. He grew up on a farm near Bakersfield, a city in Southern California. I don't know the exact details of why his dad left, because Tim never told me. I can only imagine the reasons why: another woman. Pathological wanderlust. An irresponsibly-timed crisis of manhood. A revelation that being a dad just wasn't for him. That you are at least 18 years of age or older, and that you are voluntarily choosing to view and access such sexually-explicit images and content for your own personal use. I expect my initial reaction to be one of righteous, youthful indignation—I've been orphaned, damn it!—but I feel fine. He doesn't know me well enough to strike me where it hurts, which is the kind of wound a real breakup hinges on. It was sure to fail, anyway, this cozy ballet of two people who didn't understand one another's pain. After it's over, I swear to myself that I'll never do anything that weird ever again.

I mean, the name is obviously familiar," I tell him whenever he name drops like this. "But I've never actually read anything by her. I just know she's smart." Well, yeah," he says. "In terms of age difference, this is probably the most significant. But I've gotten used to being a daddy these days." I don't really see myself as a sexual being anymore," he writes. "I felt like you were fetishizing me. I'm just the daddy with the nice chest. It doesn't feel nice." In 1981, the House of Dupree hosted a ball that introduced the concept of categories to the ballroom scene. Today's voguing competitions and balls are still influenced by Dupree.

A few months later, I migrate to a boyfriend who's older than me by a few days, not a few decades. He's as immature as I am. In hindsight, I like that about him. It makes our fights more charged, more bitter, more meaningful. His insults are exacting; he knows precisely what to say to make me feel like I shouldn't be alive. I don't want it any other way.

Tim's mother, a housewife, forced herself to get a secretary job to support Tim and his siblings. She is now decaying in a nursing home, steps away from where she raised two children on her own. Renata is essential!" he boasts. "I listen to this in the car whenever I drive to Half Moon Bay. I bet you'll really love this." It's the middle of the day. I'm doing homework on his couch while he's playing around on his phone, and I ask him if I'm the youngest guy he's ever hooked up with.It's a tempting skin to slip into—to pretend I'm just some uncultured gay kid. He assumes I am basically devoid of taste. My emotional constitution is made of straw; I can't say no. Besides, it sounds sort of fun. I nod and, silently, agree. I will be his son.