Dad and son gay porn movie
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He helped me put oil into a toy steam-engine train on a circular track, and taught me how to play chess, though that was more like taking lessons in being beaten.Īt night, Mum and I listened to the mwah-mwah-mwah of Dad’s voice speaking in Khmer, a language we didn’t understand. He also gave me the answers to mathematical equations. ‘The cat sat on the mat,’ I repeated after filling in the blank spaces of my homework. We spent long nights spread out on the floral carpet of our small lounge room. Inside were Cheezels and Burger Rings and Pac Man collector cards, which Dad handed out as treats.
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I followed him around as he did his chores, and watched him dunk a dipstick into the engine of his Toyota Corona.‘Check the oil level,’ he explained.Īmong the shelves of dripping paint tins, tools and assorted junk, there were a few plastic bags of goodies he’d saved from the potato chip factory where he and Mum worked. When I was very young, we hung out together in the old corrugated-iron garage that smelt of oily rags, WD-40 and rusting metal. Before Mum died, he used to call me kon, ‘son’ in Khmer. ‘Dad, did you hear me? I said, that’s a lot to go through.’ĭad had once been much gentler towards me. I was standing at the kitchen bench while he sat at the table facing away from me. ‘That entry you wrote about your sorrow, that’s a lot to go through.’ This was why I’d needed to go digging through old documents to find the proof of his grief in that one line. If that were true, there was no chance in hell he’d ever admit it to anyone, let alone me. I didn’t ask him what he’d been doing in his room all those times, but I suspected he’d been crying quietly, with no one to pat him on the back. I could see now how Dad had sequestered his feelings inside himself and spewed them out when he blew up, or hidden in his study when it all became too much to comprehend, during my teenage years when we clashed. Back to normal, he wrote in his diary, dusting his hands. A fortnight after Mum had been admitted to hospital, he was back at his job. No one else could carry on his Khmer radio show. A talk with her about my sorrow.ĭad had taken little time off work. I then came across an entry that spoke of his private grief, something he’d never shared with me but had with a trusted colleague: Danielle is back. Flicking through the pages around that lonely time of her death, I found an entry that said Nan Ruby ‘rang to interrogate and scold me’. I pulled out Dad’s work diary from 1993, which he’d given to me during my investigation into Mum.
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‘Wow,’ Dad said with his mouth open, teeth out, nose scrunched as he peered upwards at the spectacular domes. When we got to the Vatican, we discovered that the Sistine Chapel was closed for repairs, so we entered St Peter’s Basilica instead. Somehow I managed to get him off the couch and into the cobblestone street, where we jumped in a taxi. When I looked back on this now, I realised he’d succumbed to his unacknowledged grief three years after Mum’s death. How many times are we going to be in Rome? We only have two days, and we have to see the Vatican.’ ‘Dad! We can’t just sit here in the hotel. What was wrong with him? Why is everything like this!? I plonked myself on a chair opposite him, wearing a cap, an oversized T-shirt and baggy jeans. More angry mutterings escaped his mouth. ‘Dad!’ I said, trying to rattle him out of his funk. Incensed, he sat with one leg crossed over the other, muttering to himself. The woman in the little counter booth was speaking to an Italian guest as Dad retreated to a couch in the foyer. At a rustic hotel, he tried to make a phone call at reception, but it wasn’t connecting and the Italian staff were indifferent to his plight. Then I remembered the one time I’d seen a few sniffles. In 1996, Dad and I had travelled to Rome. This is an extract from Jason Om’s memoir All Mixed Up, published by ABC Books and available now at all good bookstores and online.ĭad’s outpouring of feelings was a stunning revelation to me because I’d believed his tear ducts were non-functional.