by Tara Tingle
I expected him to ask what those questions were.
But he did not. Instead, he fell quiet. Perhaps he was waiting for me to reconsider my demand because he had apprehensions about revealing how he really was in his childlike state.
I had no plans of reconsidering.
I crossed my arms over my chest and gave him a stern look, my way of telling him that nothing would change what I wanted to happen.
He bowed his had in defeat, conceding that there was no way out of it. He previously said that he didn't want me to leave, that he wanted me to stay a little bit longer. This was the condition I gave, and if he truly wanted me here, he had no choice but to comply with what I was asking him to do.
“Okay,” he muttered. “You might not like what you'll see...”
“I promise that I will keep an open mind,” I guaranteed.
“Promises are made to be broken,” he countered.
“Not if they're made by a priest,” I said with a smirk.
He nodded.
Then he covered himself up with the blanket. I couldn't see him anymore, but his shape underneath the sheets gave me a rather clear idea of what he was doing. He curled himself into a ball, just like he did when he was asleep.
Suddenly, he began producing some strange noises. Croaky but high-pitched. Soft and incomprehensible. Guttural and incessant.
That made me worry. The change was almost immediate.
I approached him and searched for his arm beneath the blanket. I yanked it a few times to solicit a reaction. The only response I receive were louder groans.
“Xavi,” I called his name. “Are you okay?”
He replied with whimpers.
The low, plaintive cries of a child.
Has he slid into his baby persona, I wondered? Was it that easy for him to do so?
I jerked his arm once more. “Xavi. Is something wrong? Please tell me.”
I ordered him to show me the infantile aspect of his being. I should've expected the answer that followed, yet, it still came as a shock.
“Neh... neh...” he muttered. A single syllable, totally devoid of definition even if it was uttered twice. But I still felt that he was telling me something, though I didn't know what it was.
I pulled down the blanket and saw him, in a fetal position with tears dribbling down his cheek, sucking on his thumb ever so vigorously like it was the nipple of a feeding bottle.
I was right. He has shifted to his child state as he hid under the sheets. He did say that he could that at will, and he just demonstrated it. By the way he was acting, it seemed like he has regressed to an age between six and eighteen months – a phase that rendered him incapable of understandable speech and self-care.
He was now a baby.
And it was my turn to play my role.
“Hungry?” I asked him, knowing that he wouldn't be able to reply with words.
He nodded as he continued to sob.
“Oh. Of course,” I said. “I forgot. Sorry about that.” I remembered what made me stop when I was about to leave his room earlier... the grumbling of his tummy which indicated that he was, indeed, starving.
I thought about a solution. I did see some feeding bottles and a carton of formula milk while I was cleaning his room. I remembered that I placed them on the cabinet near the door.
“Wait here,” I told him as I proceeded to prepare a nice serving of sustenance. “Don't leave the bed,” I ordered with a firm voice.
He didn't reply. He just kept sipping on his thumb.
I went to the cabinet and grabbed the carton of powdered milk. I read the instructions. A scoop per two ounces of warm water.
Scoop?
A scoop of what? A scoop from a teaspoon? A tablespoon?
And warm water? How warm? I didn't see any electric pot here, so that might be difficult regardless of the required temperature.
Perhaps there was one in the kitchen.
I looked back at Xavier. He hasn't moved, though his eyes were following me.
“I have to make milk for you,” I said. “I need to go to the kitchen.”
He growled in dissatisfaction as his sad face turned into a pout. He didn't want me away from his sight.
“I'll be really quick,” I assured him.
He roared in disapproval once more.
“I promise,” I tried to allay his disgruntlement.
It didn't work. He grunted once again, even louder this time around.
I sighed. “I promise,” I repeated. “Daddy will be back really quick.”
Daddy.
He calmed down after hearing that word, smiling as he did so. “Da... da?” he cooed with delight.
“Yes, daddy won't take long.”
“Dada!” he yelled, removing his thumb, assuming an upright position and flopping up and down from where he sat like his buttocks were bouncing on the mattress.
I gave him a wide grin before leaving the room. I proceeded to the kitchen and looked for something that could heat up water really fast. I found an electric-powered thermos and filled it up with the contents of the dispenser at the side of the fridge. I plugged it in, not knowing how long I had to wait. I guessed it would take at least a minute, like the coffee maker I had back at the chapel.
As the thermos was heating up, I took off the lid of the feeding bottle I brought with me. I smelled the container and caught a whiff of a rather sour scent. I gave it a good rinse and looked for any kind of soap I could use. I couldn't find any on the sink so I just rinsed the bottle as thoroughly as I could. I gave it one more smell. The sour scent was gone. It should be good enough for its intended purpose.
More than a minute has passed, by my estimation. Hence, I took the thermos and poured the already warm water inside the bottle. Then, I reminded myself of the next step.
One scoop per two ounces.
The bottle had eight ounces, so that meant four scoops of milk. But I still didn't know what I had to use for a scoop.
A decided on a tablespoon. It's the biggest of all the possible choices. One would never go wrong with more, I supposed. Also, there was a tablespoon by the sink so I didn't have to search for one.
I opened the carton and began to shovel up some formula milk. I made sure that each haul had a heap of powder before dropping the same inside the bottle. Once I was done, I wondered about what I should do next.
Should I add sugar?
The instructions didn't mention anything about that, but kids – and I presume, babies as well – loved sweet things. So I grabbed the jar of sugar nearby and scooped up some servings with the same tablespoon I used for the milk. There were four scoops of baby milk, so I matched it with four scoops of sugary goodness.
I closed the lid, gave the bottle a good shake, and smiled... proud at what I managed to accomplish. I began to walk back to the room, excited to see how happy Xavier would be with what I've prepared.
He was still waiting for me in bed. He got up and started to hop around the bunker as soon as he saw me. “Dada! Dada! Dada!” he screamed, over and over again, with an ecstatic beam flashing on his comely face.
“See?” I told him. “That didn't take long, right? Daddy's back.”
“Dadaaaaaaaa!” he yelled his response, holding the last syllable as long as he could.
“Coming, coming,” I said, quickening my pace as I approached him. I extended my hand, offering the bottle of freshly prepared milk I made. “Here. For the hungry baby boy. I hope you'll like it.”
He yanked the bottle out of my hands. He seemed to have been shocked as soon as he held it. He raised it up to the level of his eyes, turning the container from side to side, studying its content.
Then, he just shrugged.
He lied down on the bed once more, lifting his knees towards his chest, and putting the nipple of the feeding bottle between his lips.
And he began to drink from it, sucking the rubbery tip with so much force that it produced loud, squeaking noises with every draw.
He
sucked on the nipple for a few seconds with a happy face...
One that swiftly dissipated, replaced by a look of revulsion and agony.
He threw the bottle to the floor while he licked the palm of his hand with furious laps. It seemed like he was desperately trying to remove something from his tongue.
Was it the taste of the milk?
That should be impossible. My mixture had sugar... sugar that he was supposed to love.
Xavier started to gag like something was stuck in his throat. That made me panic. I've been trained in a lot of things, but first aid wasn't one of them.
“Xavi, what's wrong?” I restlessly asked as I rubbed his back, hoping that it would help.
“Ewww! Ewww!” he barked, as he kept pointing at the bottle that was still spinning on the floor, spewing drops of milk as it did so.
Ewww? That was probably his way of expressing aversion. Most likely, it was indeed because of the taste of the milk.
Still, I didn't want to believe that. So I grabbed the bottle from the ground and removed the lid. I took a small sip to show him that it tasted just fine.
As soon as the liquid touched my tongue and before it could even drip into my throat, however, I felt like throwing up. The concoction was, in fact, horrendous. It didn't taste like milk with sugar... it tasted like sugar topped with milk. The texture was too dense, it seemed like I was drinking mud. And worse, it was too hot that it burned my tongue with just a few drops.
I tried to cough if off.
“You're right, Xavi,” I told him as I wiped whatever of the foul brew was left on my lips with my forearm. “This is gross. It's like another circle of hell by itself,” I chuckled. “Let me see if I can prepare for you another meal.”
I went back to the kitchen without encountering much protestation from Xavier. He was too famished to stop me and to further delay the delivery of his sustenance.
I searched the fridge for something he could eat. There was nothing there except for beer bottles and Chinese takeout boxes that looked like they were weeks old. I proceeded to the shelves hanging above the sink. There I saw some canned food – meatloaves, pork and beans, sausages, sardines – nothing that Xavier would like in his baby persona. As I looked closer at the selection, though, I noticed some small bottles behind them. I reached for one of these glass jars and studied the label.
It was Gerber.
Gerber Natural Banana with Vitamin C, to be specific.
The packaging said that it was supposed to be second stage food for babies between eight to twelve months.
I didn't know, exactly, what age Xavier was enacting, but it shouldn't be far off from that range. Besides, if this particular baby food was here, it could only mean that it was being used in this household and there were no other babies around – adults or actual ones.
This could only be meant for him.
I took the Gerber back to the room, together with a spoon. As soon as I entered, I showed Xavier the jar, waving it to invite a reaction from him.
He nodded his head with zeal, flashing an excited smile as he frantically flapped his hands.
I twisted the lid and heard a pop, assuring me that the product hasn't been opened before. I settled myself on the side of the bed, near him, and scooped up some of the baby food.
“I'm sure this will be better than that eewie milk,” I said, bringing the spoon closer to his face.
But before it could reach him, however, he closed his mouth as he stifled a smile.
“What? You don't like this?” I had to ask.
He burst into giggles, telling me that he was just being playful.
He was just being playful, yes, but it did make things harder for me.
I needed to find a way that would make him open his mouth so that he could feed on what I was offering him.
I settled on something that was unoriginal but effective.
“Airplane time!” I suddenly blurted, lifting up the spoon in the air and swaying it from side to side, pretending that it was an aircraft that was preparing to descend.
He looked at the spoon with awe. His eyes never blinked and he finally opened his mouth.
That was my opportunity.
“Oh no! It's going in for a swoop!” I warned him. The spoon dove towards his lips.
He kept looking at it with his mouth agape.
The spoon entered, leaving the baby food inside.
The airplane delivered the payload.
Success!
I couldn't help but smile triumphantly as he chewed on the Gerber.
After a few seconds, it was time for another serving. I got another scoop from the jar and presented the filled-up spoon in front of him.
But he, again, refused to open his mouth.
My smile vanished as I realized what he was trying to say.
He wanted me to do that airplane stunt once more.
I heaved an exasperated sigh, realizing that it would take at least twenty scoops to finish the jar and that I had to do that airplane thing for each one of them.
Looking at his face, though – excited and hopeful and gleeful – reminded me why I was doing this in the first place. It also reinforced my original intent, as I saw how he was responding to my assumption of the caregiver role. He seemed elated by it. That made me feel needed. That made me important to him. And that...
That made me happy as well.
“Okay, here comes the airplane again,” I said as the spoon took flight. I was able to feed him without a hitch.
I repeated that ploy several times, down to the last scoop from the Gerber bottle.
I didn't know if consuming the entire jar was enough to fill him up, though. It should be enough to satisfy the hunger of a baby – an actual baby – but an adult baby? Maybe he needed more. Maybe he needed much, much more than a 250 gram bottle of baby food.
“Tummy still ouchy?” I asked, surprising myself with the word I used. Ouchy? I never talked like that. Perhaps I was acclimatizing to this daddy role faster than I thought I would.
Xavier shook his head before crawling to the other side of the bed. Once he got to that area, he suspended himself on the edge of the bunker, balancing his body above the ground while his legs anchored his weight on the mattress. It looked like he was trying to draw attention to something that was far from his reach.
I moved a bit to check what it was.
He was pointing at the dollhouse resting on the small table in front of us.
I stood up and pulled the table closer to him.
He snickered as he climbed down from the bunker to approach the dollhouse. He grabbed the two small figures inside – the ones that looked like a father and a child – and he showed them to me. “Dada!” he uttered as he lifted the bigger doll with his right hand. “Ah-vee!” he said as he shook the smaller one with his left.
I grinned. “That's right,” I acknowledged. “That one's daddy and the other one's Xavi.”
He stared at the smaller doll and gave it an inquisitive look. “Ah-vee,” he muttered his name the only way he could say it. “Ah-vee.... bibi...” he continued as his gaze darted towards me.
I instantly knew what he meant.
“Yes,” I told him. “Xavi... baby... Xavi's daddy's little baby boy.”
He let out an exultant squeal before proceeding to play with his toys. He led the two dolls all over the house, stopping at each room. He pretended that they were chatting, producing some incomprehensible sounds, the daddy doll having a low, croaky voice while the baby doll had a wheezy and brittle one.
It was cute.
It made me wonder though. If the daddy doll was supposed to be me, did I really sound like that?
I watched him play for quite some time, amused and amazed at how lost he was in the make-believe world confined in that dollhouse...
In the make-believe world he has created around him in his baby self.
But was it really make-believe?
Was all of it a ruse, an intricate play to fulfill some
deep-seated fantasy he wanted to enact?
Or was it, as he explained, what it really was? Was this – everything that this was – the real reality?
Looking at him, so innocent and immaculate and happy with how he was and with what he was doing, I became certain of one thing.
That it didn't even matter if this was a world of make-believe.
What mattered was that he was real.
Xavier was real.
And I was with him.
“Okay, we should put away your toys,” I said, disrupting his playtime
He lifted his head to look at me, wondering why I was suddenly stopping him from his activity.
“Playtime's over, Xavi,” I told him. “Time for daddy to give you a bath now.”
6
The Forbidden Fantasy
I was twelve when I started to have questions about my sexuality.
Ernie Batson was my seatmate in seventh grade. We became pretty close throughout the first few months of the school year. He was quite affectionate, but in a rather rough way. He'd playfully punch my arm or wrangle my neck with a headlock during breaks. He'd poke my ribs when no one was looking. I slept over at his place many times, playing with his action figures and his transformable robots, pretending to be asleep to escape the attention of his folks.
It was during those sleepovers when I realized that what I felt for him was more than just mere endearment for a friend. One night, when we were both exhausted with the Ninja Turtles versus Power Rangers war we waged for hours, we tucked ourselves in bed. We shared a blanket like we always did. But something was vastly different that evening. Ernie fell asleep immediately. I didn't. I was awake for hours, extremely discomforted by what I was experiencing – my heart was racing, my throat was dry, I felt like I was struggling for air, and my stomach was violently churning. I was too preoccupied with those internal sensations that I didn't notice the one thing that I should've been aware of.
It was almost too late when I realized it.
Ernie turned to my side and hooked his leg over my midsection
His thigh crashed against my groin, squashing something that shouldn't have been squashed under normal circumstances.