Page 54 of His Dad Will Do
My musical. That I poured my heart and soul into writing. That James Cohen, who’s about to take his seat in the row in front of me, took a chance on. He took a chance on me, an untried composer and lyricist, and poured a shocking amount of money into a production that I still haven’t seen in its full glory.
I mean, I was present for all the initial meetings with the director and choreographer that James hired, and some of the meetings with the lighting and set designers. I’ve met the cast and most of the crew. I know the orchestra members really well and the conductor has been an absolute joy to work with.
I’ve seen parts of the dance numbers while Marcel Fontaine, the choreographer, worked out the steps. I’ve made changes to the score and the lyrics to account for technical issues that James and the director he hired convinced me were insurmountable the way I’d written them.
But as the show came together, I stopped attending rehearsals. It felt like, I dunno, tempting fate or something to be hanging around the theater the closer the show came to opening. I didn’t even attend the previews, though Logan did.
Every show. For two solid weeks.
And speaking of Logan, he puts his hand on my knee, which has been bouncing pretty much since I sat down.
“I knew I should have caged you before we left the apartment.” He leans close and whispers this in my ear and I can’t tell whether it’s his words or his breath tickling my ear or just the nearness of him that makes my dick stiffen under my tuxedo pants.
“Fuck, no,” I whisper back. “I can’t wear a cock cage to the freaking theater.”
“You know it calms you down.”
I doubt anything, even the cock cage, can calm me down tonight. And Logan’s all talk, anyway. He’d never put me in the cage and then make me interact with an entire theater of people.
Well, except for that one time he did, when he took me to see Harry Potter and the Cursed Child for my birthday. And then fucked me bent over the kitchen island in his—now our—Upper West Side condo because he couldn’t wait to take the extra steps into our bedroom.
He rubs his big hand soothingly up and down my thigh and dammit, maybe I should have let him cage me because his hand is having the opposite effect and my dick is all the way hard now.
“You’re not helping,” I hiss. I lay my Playbill on my lap to hide the bulge in my pants and shove Logan’s hand off my thigh.
He chuckles next to my ear and I shiver. His efforts at distraction are working, though, at least temporarily. I’m not nervous anymore, just horny.
Until Logan settles back in the red velvet upholstered chair next to me and gestures at the stage. “It’s going to be a hit, sweetheart,” he says.
Of course he believes that. He’s my Daddy, and it’s his job to believe in my show. I’m still having trouble believing it myself, though.
In that uncanny way Logan has of reading my mind, he puts his arm around my shoulders. “James isn’t worried at all, and you shouldn’t be, either.”
James is still holding court on the red carpet just in front of the stage, though the curtain’s supposed to open in like, five minutes. A steady stream of well-dressed people swirl around him—investors, presumably, patrons and theater buffs, some of whom will probably be at the opening night party later. Oh god, some of these people could be critics. I’m going to puke.
Both Logan and James tried to show me the good reviews from the previews, but I refused to look at them. More superstition, I guess, but now I’m having a hard time remembering why I even wanted to do this in the first place.
Before I can lurch out of my seat and make a run for the john, the house lights dim momentarily and then brighten again. The international symbol for people to stop gabbing and find their seats. Shit. It’s curtain time.
James exchanges air kisses with yet another older lady wearing a sequined dress and shakes hands with what must be her husband. Holy crap, do they know what they’re in for with my show? They probably have season tickets and attend just about anything, but they’re older than my parents, for fuck’s sake. What are they going to think about a version of Oedipus Rex where the entire cast is queer and Thebes is the name of the spaceship they’re on, not the Greek city in which the original play is set? And, oh my god, what about the scene with the tentacles?
My parents are here, too—several rows back but still in the center orchestra section—and Lance is somewhere in the theater, too, and they’re all invited to the party after the show and suddenly it hits me anew that this theater seats nearly two thousand people, it’s sold out, and everyone came here to see my musical.
“Easy, baby boy,” Logan murmurs in my ear. “You’re fine.”
I’m really not. I’m bent nearly in half, trying to get my head between my knees, so I don’t pass out, but the row in front of me is too close and I’m having trouble breathing. Logan strokes my back a few times, but it doesn’t help.
“Sit up.”
I obey immediately, because that’s Daddy’s voice—the command tone Logan uses mostly when we’re alone, but which never fails to reach me, even in my absolute panic.
“I know you’re nervous, Silas. But this show doesn’t belong only to you anymore. A lot of people have put a lot of money and time into this show and it’s ready. You know it is. You’ll honor the work everyone’s put into it and behave like the professional I know you are.”
I turn to look at him and he gazes steadily back at me. He’s also dressed in a tuxedo and the silver strands in his hair glint in the lights of this 1920s-inspired grand theater. He’s so handsome it almost hurts to look at him and he’s got that tiny smile playing around his lips that’s only for me.
“Would I put you in a situation you can’t handle?”
“No, Daddy,” I whisper. People are settling in their seats around us, unwrapping scarfs and flipping through their Playbills, so I think no one will hear me. I don’t normally call him that outside our homes, but I need the reminder right now.
