Page 256 of Daddy's Pride

“Ugh,” I whispered to myself, heading back up to my room. “Just… no.”

Obviously, he must have a name, but nothing seemed to fit him except “Daddy.” Even though maybe it was weird to feel that way, because when I’d looked it up, all I’d found was a bunch of porn—which I’d shut down fast because wow, um, yikes?—and a few other things that had seemed a little too weird for me.

But before I’d bleached my internet search history, I had seen some stuff about how “Daddies” often get off on “caretaking,” and I guessed that was what he must like about being friends with me?

Because he did take care of me.

Um, not that he was getting off to it, of course.

I mean, was he?

“God, of course not,” I mumbled, shutting my bedroom door and then staring at myself in the full-length mirror I’d hung on the back of it.

Like, what did gay Daddies who were into their “boys” like that even look for? Because it probably wasn’t me.

Which was obviously fine. I wasn’t even gay. Plus, I may not have the art of adulting down perfectly, but I was an actual man now—even if I was probably on the less-than-impressive end of the manly scale with my scrawny body and inability to grow facial hair to save my life.

But still… man. Not boy.

Not that I particularly minded it when Daddy called me “baby boy” or “sweet boy” of “good boy” sometimes. And by “not particularly minding it,” I kind of meant that I really liked it.

Was that normal?

God. Maybe something really was wrong with me.

I ruffled my hair, staring at it hard. It was so blah. Brown, but not like, an amazing brown. Not really dark, but not light either. And not straight, but also not curly? It was just… there. Like dirt. But boring dirt, not grow-country-fair-sized-zucchinis dirt.

And my eyes were brown, too. Sort of too pale to be properly brown, though. Almost yellow, but not? Khaki. That was what they reminded me of. Could a person have khaki-colored eyes?

I leaned in close, staring into them.

Pretty? Mysterious? Soulful?

No. At least, I was pretty sure they were none of those things. They were just sort of… eye-shaped. Not really impressive at all. And my eyebrows were sort of unruly, which wasn’t something I’d ever even known to look out for before Hannah had complained about it a few times.

But didn’t gay guys do, like, facials and eyebrow plucking and stuff?

Not that it mattered since I wasn’t one, but still. I imagined that gay Daddies who actually wanted to, you know, be with their boys, the way I’d seen online, probably weren’t into unruly eyebrows.

Or chubby round cheeks.

Or super pale skin that turned fluorescent whenever I—I mean, whenever anyone who had skin like that—got embarrassed and blushed.

I spun away from the mirror, feeling somehow worse now than I had when I’d been having a stupid emotional meltdown for no good reason on my bed earlier.

My phone chirruped, buried somewhere in my bedding. It was my nine o’clock “get ready for bed” alarm, but now that finals were done, did it matter if I went to bed early?

My first impulse was to message Daddy and ask, but I suddenly felt weird about that. Too… needy. Almost like I would just be using it for an excuse to reach out to him. And even though he always said I wasn’t a bother, wasn’t I? Like, by definition?

But I wasn’t quite sure if I could manage to just fall asleep, either.

Maybe Jacob would want to hang out?

I pictured his irritated face about the water thing, and decided not to ask. Not that it was my fault exactly?—

Well, actually, I guessed it was. Wasn’t that what my parents were always harping on me about? Taking responsibility and growing up and all that?

So maybe I should spend some time watching more YouTube videos about plumbing and see if there was more I could do myself… and not let myself get distracted by cats being startled by toasters again, since I was pretty sure I’d lost a whole hour to that the last time I went down the rabbit hole.