Daddy's Home

by Landon Rockwell

  I feel at home in Hillcrest. Not just because it's primarily populated by gay men, but also because they have a ton of unique shops and places to eat that you can't find along Interstate 5, or near the border of Tijuana. And of course, they have the best small movie theaters in the city.

  I love seeing well-written, underrated movies at small theater houses where at most there are thirty to forty seats in each screening room.

  As I turn off on University Ave, I think back to my session earlier with Ethan. At least I was able to maintain some slight sense of professionalism around him, because the moment I found out he was into film as much as I am, I had to fight back every urge in me not to dive into an hour-long talk about movies.

  The irony of that session was that Ethan’s life got off track much in the same way that mine did. I also loved movies my whole life and wanted to work in that field in some capacity. Being around my dad, even though he was taking a different path than I ever would or could, it still immersed me in the media world since I can remember and left an imprint on my soul. Maybe it's in my blood, just like with Ethan. I don't mind being a counselor, and I know that my work makes a difference in this world. But I've always known deep down that it's not really my truest calling. And yet, I also know that I'm stuck on this path now. I went through all the trouble to get my graduate degree in counseling, and my father pretty much guaranteed a steady flow of referrals. I just can’t imagine turning my back on it all now and starting completely over.

  I'm twenty-seven years old though, hardly an old man by any standard, and hardly too old to give up on my dreams. At least on paper. But inside, off paper, I can’t justify turning away from something that’s guaranteed, and that’s exactly what my current job as a clinician is.

  So at least I tried to put my own stamp on my chosen path. I chose to keep things modest; I purposely chose a non-glamorous side of town to practice in, and I purposefully chose to rent office space in a setting that is way less than luxurious. I refused to follow in my father's footsteps in the psychiatric industry, particularly the way he turns people's emotions into an entertainment commodity in order to profit.

  My father basically makes a living by making a mockery out of human distress. His TV production antics, kind of like Dr. Phil on steroids, are usually more disturbing and surreal than Hollywood blockbusters themselves.

  I walk into my favorite movie theater in Hillcrest, Fifth Street Cinema, and a teenager riddled with tattoos hands me my ticket to see Hero, a new film about a young American veteran who struggles to assimilate to civilian life after serving a tour of duty in the Middle East, and barely making it out alive. I've heard amazing things about this film in the San Diego Reader.

  I head into the small screening room, and look around until I spot the only open seat left. The room is filled with mostly men, presumably gay men given that I’m in the heart of Hillcrest right now. And most of the guys here are with someone. Not me though; I've been single for several years now, and I kind of like it that way.

  At least that's what I try to tell myself. Sure, it's easier being single. Being single is the ultimate attempt to play things safe in life.

  But it's also a lot lonelier. And I’m willing to admit that to myself.

  The theater is dark as I slide past a crowded sea of legs in between the seats to make my way towards the one empty one. I almost drop my soda as I see who's sitting in the seat against the wall that abuts the empty seat...

  Ethan Shields.

  The blue light from the screen lights up his whole face as he takes a sip from his red straw. He's dressed ultra casual with a dark hoodie and a white T-shirt, and a simple pair of dark jeans from the looks of it. I quietly gulp as my eyes accidentally glance over the ripples from his abs that are clearly evident through the tight, stretchy fabric of his shirt.

  I pause for a moment, fully aware that I'm blocking some of the patrons’ views as I ponder whether or not I should leave immediately. A rush of muttering and insults get flung my way the longer I block the screen.

  I don't have a choice, I tell myself as I panic and sit down right next to Ethan.

  Truth is, or was, I did have a choice.

  But it’s too late now.

  I’m embarrassed to admit how worked up I’m getting inside for absolutely no real reason. Calm the fuck down. If my father could see me now, catching a flick with one of my clients, and getting a mild chemical charge out of it. Good stuff, I'm sure the media would love this. Thankfully, the media can’t see or prove hidden feelings and emotions. I learned that a long time ago.

  "Ethan?" I say, pretending as though I just realized that he was sitting right next to my chosen seat.

  He looks confused to see me, rightfully so, as though I just freaked him out or something. "Garrett?" he says, taking another sip of soda from his straw.

  “This is the only seat left. I promise, I'm not stalking you," I whisper.

  Really no need for that last part.

  Luckily, the fact that my voice is so low hides the mild tremor in it.

  "You don’t seem like the stalking type. Get comfortable, the movie’s about to start," he says.

  Is that code for calling me boring? Great, now I actually care about my client’s opinions of me. Did I seriously want him to say that I look like the poster child for a stalker? Would that have felt any better?

  Besides, if I was that boring, I wouldn't have had those ridiculous urges for him while he was pouring his heart out in my office. There was nothing boring about that.

  "Thanks, brother. I heard this movie is intense," I say, trying to sound as casual as I possibly can right now.

  "Me too. I like them that way," he adds.

  I finally surrender and settle down into my seat. The rows are so tight, it's impossible for our legs not to collide every now and then. I find my mind half engrossed in the movie, and half engrossed in the fact that I'm sitting right next to this man. As more time passes, it's more and more disturbing how obsessed I am with him. I silently take in waves of citrus that come from his body. Every minute or so I shift my body, pretending to be grabbing something from my pocket, only I'm actually shamefully sneaking in a glance at his thighs or abs.

  Most of the time though, I do the best I can to sit like a frozen block of ice. If I move even a millimeter, my arm or my thigh brushes up against his.

  I have to say, the movie is so goddamn unavoidably good that even despite the intense feelings I'm getting sitting right next to Ethan, intense, horrible physical feelings, my mind is still occasionally captured by the storyline in the film.

  Finally, the movie ends and the credits start to roll. Most of the audience gets up and leaves. Being an obsessive-compulsive movie watcher for my entire life, I always stay until the screen goes black at the end. The credits are there for a reason, not just to see who helped produce the movie, but to give the viewers a chance to take it all in, psychologically escorted by the final track of the movie's soundtrack. Especially for powerful movies like Hero, watching the credits is my way of getting some closure on the movie’s storyline.

  I look over at Ethan, and clearly, he feels the same way. As if right on cue, Ethan sips the last bit of soda from his straw and rattles the ice in his cup around in a few quick circles. His tongue slips out slightly from his mouth to catch a stray drop that slides down the tip of the straw. The temperature rises between my legs, and I have to squeeze my thighs together to repress whatever it is I'm feeling between them.

  Jesus Garrett, get a hold of yourself, I plead with myself.

  Ethan looks over at me. "That explains the Scorsese poster," he says.

  "I don't get it," I say.

  "Well, you either stayed to watch the credits because you're a purist like me, or your ass got stuck to a giant piece of licorice and you can't get up from your seat," he jokes.

  I can’t help from laughing as I look over at the screen, knowing it's much safer to look away from him for a moment or two. Even in this low-lit room,
his magnetic, puppy dog eyes have a way of gripping my attention and not letting it go. I look at the screen and say, "Or maybe a combination of both."

  He chuckles and stands up from his seat, something I should've done two hours ago. In fact, the moment I saw him in here and knew I'd be sitting next to him, I should have buried my head in my shirt and made a beeline for the nearest red exit sign.

  The two of us leave the screening room, and Ethan tells me he has to go to the bathroom, as though he assumes I'm going to wait for him. Or, maybe he was just being polite and that was his way of saying goodbye. Hell, maybe I'm psychotic for analyzing any of this shit in the first place. Either way, I realize that this is my chance to leave. But instead, I find myself simply nodding to him and waiting outside of the men's room.

  Ethan comes out of the bathroom, clearly having just splashed some cold water on his face. And I swear, it's though I've just seen his wide, innocent eyes for the first time. His long, dark bangs cover a small portion of his eyes at first, until he ultimately flicks them to the side. His cheeks are soft with pink splotches erratically placed here and there. He has the face of a baby, with a thin, rugged layer of facial hair that can only belong to a man. And while he might look younger than his age, he also looks weathered from the emotional storm that brought him into my office in the first place. No doubt, he's been beaten down. I can call these cases from a mile away.

  But make no mistake, despite his soft, innocent exterior, he's got the hips and shoulders of a man who is fully capable of lifting up the back end of a car if he had to. He's the type of man who has no idea how much strength he even has, both inside and out.

  Psychiatry may not be my absolute calling, but I'm really good at. If there's one thing I feel confident in without question, it's my ability to read people well.

  "That ending wasn't really that fair. I couldn't tell if he was going to start the best night of his life or jump off a five-story parking garage," he says, referring to the main character in the movie and how it all ended.

  I narrow my eyes slightly as I ready myself to debate Hero. "I disagree. Hands-down, it was a happy ending. The last scene showed Leo driving out of Norman Falls. That was the whole point. After he came back from the war, he felt completely trapped. But not anymore," I say.

  Ethan ponders my interpretation of the ending. Then it hits me, I'm literally chumming it up with my client. And he and I aren't showing any signs of wanting to leave, or wanting this night to end.

  He scratches his temple and says, “Pretty cool analysis, Doc. Even though the Leo character had a negative balance in his bank account, he had a car with a full tank of gas as he drove off from his hometown. That was definitely symbolic of him breaking through some sort of personal barrier."

  I resist the urge to nudge him in the shoulder, excited that we’re both on the same page about the movie’s ending. Instead, I tuck my hands safely into my pockets in order to limit the likelihood of them landing anywhere near his body.

  He shrugs his shoulders, his way of finally announcing the awkwardness of our situation. I know he's not feeling the same ridiculous inner pull that I am, but still, he knows I'm his therapist, and he knows that I'm the one signing off on his report at the end of it all. "I'm glad we ran into each other. It was a coincidence, wasn't it?" he jokes.

  I chuckle and say, "Like you said, I'm not the stalker type."

  "The thought hit me that maybe this was all part of your investigative process. Just wanted to make sure that’s not true,” he says.

  "I have a code of professional practice that I’m bound by. And gathering personal information by watching a movie with a client isn’t part of that. I promise, just a coincidence," I say.

  Ethan's eyes flicker, and I swear there’s at least an ounce of intrigue in those eyes of his right now. It's as if he's curious about me, maybe even slightly captivated by me, just like I am by him. The difference is, his curiosity is most likely intellectual or emotional, and not physical. "Well, maybe we’ll coincidentally run into each other again here sometime. God knows I'm here all the time," he adds.

  "It's not such a bad place to be. This movie theater has the best vibe in San Diego County. And where else can you see a low budget cult classic horror flick on one night and an Oscar-nominated drama the next?"

  Ethan smiles and nods his head. "Exactly! You get it, Garrett."

  I find myself biting down on my lower lip for no apparent reason other than the fact that I am acting like a child in front of this man.

  We say our goodbyes, and I notice that Ethan heads up a stairway, rather than down one. There's no exit sign by the stairway that he entered, which is pretty odd. I shrug it off and leave the movie theater, spending the rest of my night restless…

  This new client of mine has me feeling things I haven't felt before… feelings that need to fucking stop.

  I have to get my shit together. For example, I'm never going to Fifth Street Cinema again, even if it is my favorite movie theatre on the west coast. I have my next counseling session with Ethan in a week, and then another week after that, and then another week…

  Until our eight weeks are done.

  Being near him obviously isn’t cool. Clearly.

  But I can make sure to manage my behavior from this point forward, considering the fact that behavior modification is one of my clinical specialties.

  I got this, I assure myself.

  But as I strip down to my underwear and collapse onto my bed later that night, I find that I can't manage shit.

  The second I realize that falling asleep like a normal person is no longer an option, I reach my hand inside my boxer briefs and start to grab. Blood fills my dick immediately, and I'm so instantly hard it aches. It's as though there's been some sort of unconscious sexual build up. I start stroking myself, trying with all my might to repress images of Ethan from entering my mind and at the same time, allowing myself the unbeatable pleasure of this fantasy…

  So many thoughts come to mind, not matter how much I shouldn't allow them in. The fantasy of the two of us, without even a single thread of clothing on, wrapped tightly in each other's arms. The warmth of his skin.

  The fantasy of Ethan's moist lips suffocating my balls.

  Then I allow my mind to cross the line even further; I stroke myself even faster as I moan and picture the thought of me entering Ethan's body. How tight he would feel, how much energy and heat he must have all locked up inside of him.

  Aside from the fact that he's my client and I would lose my license to practice just for even thinking this way, he's shown no real signs of being gay even if it was permitted for the two of us to fool around. In fact, he was just married to a woman and he has a child… There must be something seriously wrong with me.

  Why do I feel this pull towards him? There are plenty of attractive men out there who are not gay, and I never feel this kind of surge for any of them. I can't be imagining all of this… this attraction.

  I keep stroking as I mentally picture his body now opening up with me inside of him. In my evil little mind, he starts to back his ass into me, saying dirty words and pleading with me to give him everything I've got.

  The thought of him saying trashy things to me pushes me over the edge as I clench every muscle in my body and release my orgasm. Wave upon wave of come unloads onto my stomach. I reach over for some tissues and wipe myself off. At the very least, I finally feel like I can relax and let some of this go.

  Huh. Maybe that was all I needed this whole time in order to put him out of my mind, just one good imaginary fuck.

  If only life was that simple

  ETHAN

  The alarm on my phone goes off at its usual time, six o’clock. I begrudgingly rise from my sleeping bag that’s plastered to the cold, oak floor of the projector room.

  Not exactly the Four Seasons, but the owner of the theater, who I’ve kind of gotten to know after coming here for so many years and being Fifth Street’s most frequent flyer, made me a deal when
he heard about my situation…

  That is, when he heard about my ex-wife filing a fake restraining order against me, forcing me to leave my home behind as I fight back and clear my name.

  I should say, if I clear my name.

  The deal with the owner was that I just have to program the movies for the daily schedule at Fifth Street Cinema and clean out the bathrooms downstairs, and then I would get the privilege of sleeping in this one hundred and fifty square foot cave.

  Considering it’s either here or at a homeless shelter, I chose here.

  Plus, I feel at home near anything whatsoever related to movies.

  But that’s neither here nor there as last night comes back to torment me. That shit with Garret King and me was more out there than the director’s cut of A Clockwork Orange.

  My mind had to be playing tricks on me, because I felt some sort of energy between us, and I don’t know how to describe it with words. He seemed awkward from the moment he sat down next to me in the theater, to the moment we said goodbye.

  I just assumed when I said I had to go to the bathroom that he was going to leave.

  But he didn’t. And I didn’t mind.

  Regardless, I have to be reading into this way too much. Time to regain my focus, for Zoey. Garrett King is a professional who is currently assigned to the courts. He's responsible for clearing away that bullshit restraining order, and that’s only the first step towards me getting to spend time with Zoey. He’s a mandated reporter, and I need to remember that. I have to prove to the courts that I'm just as worthy a parent as Elizabeth is moving forward, even though I have less than a hundred dollars in my checking account right now, I have credit card companies chasing me down, and I'm sleeping on a floor in a movie theater.

  Indeed, I'm not looking so good in the eyes of the courts right now. The only two things that set my current living accommodations apart from a homeless shelter are the fact that I can watch movies here for free and there’s a relatively clean shower that nobody uses that I get to borrow to wash up in every day. Granted, I can barely fit my entire body inside the shower itself, but the over-zealous water pressure makes up for the lack of space. Either way, I hardly appear ready to parent Zoey even if I was granted permission.