He did it again. I have lost count of the number of times that I have asked him to stop, but he hasn't. Of course, I can't very well tell him the reason that I want him to stop. No, that just wouldn't do at all. I can already imagine the look of horror that would grace his face if I were ever completely honest with him. And I am not willing to risk what comfort we do have simply on the exceptionally slim chance that my feelings might possibly be returned. After all, I do abhor gambling.

It's not even something that's all that big. The word is only three letters long, but I flinch every time it passes his lips. I suppose that I should be grateful that he thinks that well of me, but I can't seem to do it. Oh, I know that he loves me. He's just not doing it in the way that I want him to, that I need him to.

He's doing it the best way that he knows how. He's trying to give me what he thinks that I need, and I do appreciate the thought. I truly do. But every time that I hear him call me 'son,' I can't help but think just how un-filial my thoughts about him are. Somehow, I don't think that he would ever be comfortable with me again if he knew just what goes through my mind when I look at him.

I wish that I could get him to understand. Contrary to popular belief, I do not need a father. I had one father, and that was more than enough. I need him to love me, as a man and not as a child. But I fear that he shall consider me as nothing more than a son forever. Perhaps, someday I will be able to show him what it is that I do need from him, instead of what he thinks I need.

I don't want to be your son, Josiah. I want to be your lover.