He gestures at his muscles and large chest. I get it now. While his dad was away, Tim sculpted himself into a vision of fatherhood he never saw firsthand: a sturdy Schwarzenegger frame with the heart of Dustin Hoffman. In my mind, he is muscular. He acts "macho," like Tim, not effete. His voice is more full-throated than Tim's, which is gentle and concerned. Maybe he has red hair like Tim. Maybe it's blonde. I don't know how the genetics of red hair work. He doesn't have piercings like Tim. Maybe he's still alive, dating much younger women like his son once dated much younger men. Maybe someone's taking care of him, or maybe he's learned how to take care of himself. Maybe he's died. Maybe he died alone. Tim was three years old when his dad left the family. He grew up on a farm near Bakersfield, a city in Southern California. I don't know the exact details of why his dad left, because Tim never told me. I can only imagine the reasons why: another woman. Pathological wanderlust. An irresponsibly-timed crisis of manhood. A revelation that being a dad just wasn't for him. I don't really see myself as a sexual being anymore," he writes. "I felt like you were fetishizing me. I'm just the daddy with the nice chest. It doesn't feel nice." But I wonder about Tim's father more often than I wonder about Tim. My many guesses at the image of Tim's father have started to crystallize into a monolithic daddy.

Over time, Tim realized he wasn't cut out for fatherhood. His visions of being a dad were naïve: small gifts of unconditional love without the hard, exhausting work. At some point, we all become like our fathers.

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My emotional constitution is made of straw; I can't say no. Besides, it sounds sort of fun. I nod and, silently, agree. I will be his son. It's a tempting skin to slip into—to pretend I'm just some uncultured gay kid. He assumes I am basically devoid of taste. Well, yeah," he says. "In terms of age difference, this is probably the most significant. But I've gotten used to being a daddy these days." It's the middle of the day. I'm doing homework on his couch while he's playing around on his phone, and I ask him if I'm the youngest guy he's ever hooked up with.

Renata is essential!" he boasts. "I listen to this in the car whenever I drive to Half Moon Bay. I bet you'll really love this."To him, I'm the prettiest twink in the world. When he calls me beautiful, it's impossible not to believe. His feelings seem unconditional, just as any father's love should be.