Yes, Daddy

by Jonathan Parks-Ramage

My dream was to become a playwright, but I lacked the one thing most aspiring playwrights possess: rich parents.

“Why is it that rich people love to complain about being poor?”

“Because if I were to say one honest thing to my mother, I would have to say them all.” Richard sighed. “And even if I were brutally candid about the pain she’s caused me over the years, she wouldn’t hear it. Denial is my mother’s superpower.”

Perhaps tedious, lube-thrust-repeat sex was predicated on both parties being physically well matched, but real sex — the kind that keeps you screaming — was about power.

He smelled like deodorant and sweat and Tom Ford Tobacco. It seemed like a heavy scent for summer, but something about it calmed me.

An erection meant that I was finally letting God into my heart, that I was eliminating my wretched “same-sex attraction.” And so, as I’d done before in childhood, I once again offered my cock to the Lord. This time, locked in my bedroom with a copy of Penthouse, I hoped that the blood of Christ would surge to my dick.

“But don’t worry,” he insisted nervously. “I’m not a troll. I’m a reporter from Vice.” “Isn’t that the same thing?”

“Come on, bro. That’s not fair. We, like, won a Peabody Award —” “Fuck off.”

Trauma is like a gift. The shittiest fucking gift in the world. Coal in your motherfucking stocking. But the minute you receive it, it becomes yours. And it’s your responsibility what you do with it. And you can use it as an excuse to destroy your life and destroy the lives of people around you, but you shouldn’t.

Go to therapy, you fucking idiot. Love, Mace

It was then I did what many anguished Americans faced with crippling anxiety do: I went to Gwyneth Paltrow for advice.