Frankie Fever

Dinner that evening was dire. Everyone was silent and all you could hear was cutlery hitting the plates. Mom had cooked lasagne, Dad’s favourite. Mikey picked at his food awkwardly, twirling his fork absentmindedly.

I took a sip of my red wine. Mom took a tiny bite-size mouthful. Mikey poked at his food. Dad cast a lingering glance at us all, each in turn.

“Well, this is nice, isn’t it?” Mom smiled.

Mikey and I looked at each other - we were thinking the same thing. Mom was totally delusional. Dad swallowed and looked around the table again.

“It’s nice to sit down and have dinner with my family,” He half-whispered out “How was. . . how was school, Mikey?”

Mikey didn’t say anything. He looked up at Dad, twirling his fork slowly. Dad waited expectantly. Mikey twirled and poked at his food slowly, still not saying anything. All was silent. Dad swallowed hard, clearly uncomfortable. Mikey blinked. And he suddenly sat up straighter, smiling brightly.

“It was fine, thank you, Dad,” He replied sweetly.

Dad nodded and managed an awkward smile, turning to me.

“How about you, Gerard?”

I paused to think.

“Oh, and Frank!” Dad added in “How’s he?”

Complicated.
Complicated.

I shrugged my shoulders and took another mouthful of lasagne.

* * *

”Step two: crowd out sexual thoughts with pleasant images of nature!”

I approached this step by taking a walk through the park. Nice, quiet me time. There was a dog walker in the distance and a group of cyclists, out for their weekend exercise. It was nice and quiet. I smiled contently to myself as a gentle breeze fluttered around me, lifting strands of my hair and ushering leaves along the path.

Birds twittered and swooped through the air playfully. They looked youthful and it made me feel good about my age for the first time. I was fifteen. And I was proud of it. Most old people would kill to be my age again. I should be making the most of it. You’re only fifteen once.

Ducks waggled their tails as they pedalled their way through the water, making me giggle. They looked so funny. Some little ducklings followed their mother, all cute and fluffy.

I smiled, watching the ducklings as I walked a circle around the pond. There were two deckchairs overlooking the water, occupied by a guy and a girl, sitting holding hands. I paused and blinked.

Frank reached out beside me. When I looked, he was holding his hand out to me, palm up. My heart swooped. . .

I shook my head sharply.

I was looking up at him, concerned. He looked messed up. He was grinning and had a manic little glint in his eye. There was a glistening sheen of sweat across his forehead and he was breathing hard and fast. . .

. . .I was cut off by a pair of strong hands seizing the back of my head and pulling me forwards. And then lips slammed into mine. . .

I blinked and shook my head again. I was not going to let him start invading my head. Not when I’d just found tranquillity.

. . .He leaned in close to me, reaching out with one hand and stroking the side of my face softly. His eyes fluttered shut as he moved closer still, his hand cupping the side of my face. I closed my eyes and moved one hand to the back of his neck. . .

. . .His lips moved slowly, squeezing mine between them. A hand slid around my waist, pulling me into him. This was even better than the last time. This time he’d taken his time and was putting real effort into it. . .

. . .Something soft poked at my lips. His tongue. He was slipping his tongue in. I eagerly touched his tongue with mine. . .

“No,” I mumbled “No, no, no, nope! No!” I ranted, slapping myself sharply across the forehead several times.

The couple in the deck chair gave me an alarmed look before getting up and half-running away from me. If I wasn’t careful, I’d get myself a reputation as the local crazy guy. I didn’t particularly want to be known as the crazy guy.

Frankie had dived on me and wrapped his arms firmly around my neck. But that wasn't all! He'd clambered onto my lap and was half-straddling me. His package was pushed against mine. I inhaled sharply. . .

“URGH!” I screamed to myself, tugging on my hair.

That’s it. I was going home.

* * *

”Step three: As homosexuality is invariably caused by rejection from a same sex parent, we must try and heal rifts.”

I should’ve known the prodigal father was the root of all my evils. Still, steps were steps.

I began searching for any opportunity to help Dad out with something or to sit down and watch tv with him. And just generally seeking any excuse to spend some time with him or ‘heal the rifts between us’.

I made him countless cups of coffee.

I fixed his cigarettes for him.

I bought him a pack of his favourite cookies.

I endured an Indiana Jones marathon with him.

I helped him and Mikey bake - yes, bake - cakes.

I seemed Dad was trying to fix things between him and Mikey while I tried to fix things between me and him. Bit of a rift-healing triangle. Always good fun. But I think my attempts at filling the space between me and Dad were going unnoticed.

Well, the only times he did seem to notice was when he told me to back off and stop smothering him. Still, at least I’d tried to fix things. You couldn’t blame me any more. I was paying Dad attention. If he wanted to focus on fixing things between him and Mikey, that was his problem.

I could go to bed with a smile on my face, feeling satisfied with myself for trying. Things just had to start going my way soon.