Page 16 of Snuggle Bug

I pick up the remote, then scroll through the available animated movies. Calloway snuggles against my chest, ready for me to choose.

That gives me joy. I make decisions for my boy. I’m strong like that, and he trusts me.

SEVEN

CALLOWAY

The movie that we watch helps me regress further into my Little headspace.

It’s about a chicken who believes that the sky is falling. He runs around his village, warning everyone that the world as they know it will end soon. No one believes him. As it turns out, he was right. The sky truly does fall down.

I fight a dumb grin, snuggling with Greyson as I pretend I’m that little chicken. Closing my eyes, I flap my wings, squawking as I chirp and fly from place to place. Nothing can stop me from soaring, from showing off my new skills.

"I’m a chicken, Daddy."

Greyson cups my bum. He pats it, which of course, makes my cheeks turn pink. "You’re the chicken in the movie."

"Sure am."

I make a bawking noise, but it’s so quiet that I’m not sure Greyson even hears. Maybe I don't want him to. Maybe I want to keep it to myself, to be Little in the privacy of my imagination.

Greyson knows me better than that. Sure enough, he hears.

Bending down, he places his ear next to my mouth. "I think there’s a chicken in my arms."

I stave off a giggle, or at least I try to. Curling my fingers and toes, I press my lips against Greyson’s ear, summoning the will not to back down now. This is my big chance to show Greyson how Little I can be. Oh, don't let me get shy. Let me be strong, own my quirks, and be the best pretender of make believe that I can be.

"Bawk, Daddy."

Greyson tickles my tummy. "You sound like you’re about to lay an egg. I hope I can turn it into scrambled eggs."

I burst into laughter, wriggling under his silly touch. He hits my funny bones in the exact right spots, under my ribs, and I sigh. My fingers claw at his neck, running across his manly skin, and I feel at peace.

Greyson hasn’t tickled me in a while. He stopped about two months ago, and I couldn’t figure out why.

Now, I know it was because he was fighting his own attraction to me. How sad. I’d never want my Daddy to stop making me laugh just because he’s feeling sexy around me. Why a shame to take away the joy that we share, the happy moments of pure bliss, simply because of his desires.

"I like when you tickle me." I stare into his eyes, focusing all my attention on them. I’m not sure why, but they glaze over as they turn to me. I wonder what Greyson is seeing. Me? I hope so. Something tells me that perhaps he isn’t. Perhaps he’s seeing something entirely different—a version of me that blends with his desires. Longstanding desires that he held before I ever came into his life.

None of us are truly ever ourselves in the eyes of another. People don't exist as ends in and of themselves. We paint others with the brushes of our own knowledge about them and our own past experiences, lending them characteristics, traits, and values they might not even have. It’s easy to read what we want into others or douse them in the hues of our fears. Anxiety makes this ten times worse, and instead of seeing a new friend for who they "are," all we focus on is the way they remind us of a long-lost childhood friend who passed away from a drug overdose, and so we think this new friend is using drugs, too. That’s all we can think. That’s our association. Things are never what they seem.

I’d love to see myself through Greyson’s eyes. I don't think I’m very special. There are bazillions of young men like me in New York. Greyson sees me through a kaleidoscope of color. Whatever he views inside of me, he’s convinced that it’s one of a kind. I bet color radiates off my limbs, blurring the air between us. I’m like the clouds Monet painted—not actual clouds, but clouds enveloped in a patina of some ineffable, invisible barrier that prevented him from realizing them on canvas the way they "were." In the same vein, Cézanne painted the space in between himself, the observer, and his subject, trees or a landscape, with the intention of capturing the intangible elements, such as the air or other factors, that prevented him from perceiving them as solid objects, which created far better art.

Greyson chuckles. "You’re in luck. I like tickling you."

My eyes lock on his lips. They’re so red and perfect I can’t stand it. Earlier, I was certain that the big moment had finally arrived. Our first kiss.

I’ve been waiting for Greyson to press his mouth to mine for the longest time. To cup the back of my head, bridge the gap between us, and feast on my mouth like lovers do in movies. This grand moment has been all I’ve been able to think about for the past eleven months since we got together.

Greyson didn’t kiss me. I was so confused. He seemed to pause, hesitate, and then pull back. I felt his breath on my nose, and was so baffled until I saw an eyelash drift out of my peripheral vision, and I understood that perhaps the only reason he was so close to my face was to remove that stupid eyelash. He didn’t want to kiss me, not truly, at least not yet. He’s working his way up to it. Trying to summon up the courage.

There's another novel I once read where the two characters wanted to kiss, but cannot for the entirety of the book. It certainly wasn’t a romance or at least not in the traditional sense. They kept going for it, inching toward each other, but they got so caught up in studying their beloved that, in the end, they psych themselves out and back away, shyly. They tell themselves that they’re only practicing for the moment when they do kiss, but that moment never comes. All they do is prepare for a kiss that they both keep putting off that perhaps will come, that they hope will come, but fail to realize because both only live in their heads.

I think I live in my head. Greyson does, too. That's why we click so well.

Greyson better not do that to me. I’m not like those characters in that novel. I want to kiss my Daddy, to cement our relationship with the seal of our love. It’s all my Little heart wants.

I’ve heard of boys who don't like kissing their Daddies at the Hug Club, and that thought fills me with so much confusion that I can’t wrap my head around it. What’s their problem? One boy told me that he doesn’t like the taste of an older man’s mouth on his, or feeling scratchy whiskers on his cheeks. He says that he’d rather just play with his Daddy, have sex, and then skip cuddling or gentle activities altogether. That boggled my mind so much I gasped. I actually was playing with blocks at the time, and my arm spasmed out, and knocked my tower over. Blocks shot all over the floor and created quite a ruckus.