A pen

Sometimes things happen which you never saw coming.

Today I decided to FaceTime with my parents. I was explaining that despite applications, interview and working this week as freelance editorial staff on a fashion magazine, I’m still worried about not finding another permanent job in London.

It was then that my Dad said something wholly unexpected, and deadly serious:

Maybe you should consider working as an escort?

No, he really wasn’t joking.

I think I stammered “excuse me?” and hung up.

Then I started to cry. For some reason when I started I couldn’t stop.

I think it was 25 years of knowing my parents and I were too different to ever really get along. But it’s one thing to secretly know that, another to hear your (former) Father tell you to consider selling your body in London while you work on your dreams of being a fashion editor.

I don’t know what to think, say or do.

All I know is that I have no wish to speak with either one of them. As  sit here, numb and in the dark, I can only hope this will turn out to be, in some way, a final emancipation.

They’re my parents. He’s my Dad.

Your Dad isn’t supposed to tell his child, in all seriousness, to consider working as an escort. That is supposed to be what you do in a final act of desperation. It’s supposed to be the thing you live in dread of your parents finding out.

You’re parents aren’t supposed to tell their baby boy to go let any old pervert with money feel them up.

But mine just did.

And, for possibly the very first time in 25 years, I have no idea what to say.


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