2. Cameron

This was it. My last chance. The final countdown or some shit.

This guy was either going to be my first and forever Daddy or the last in a long line of failed attempts at finding true love.

Because I was exhausted. Done.

After spending the last ten-plus years since coming out as a trans man bouncing around on the latest dating apps—I'd tried them all, even the supposedly trans-friendly ones where I was fetishized more often than not—I was tired. Like deep-in-my-soul tired. I couldn't keep going like this.

I glanced at my phone lying on the white tablecloth next to the perfectly executed place setting and tapped it to check the time. Five minutes until he was late. I sighed soundlessly, keeping my posture straight just in case I didn't see him right away. I didn't want to start the night off on the wrong foot in case this was Mr. Right. He still had a few minutes.

Scooting back in the plush chair, I tugged on the hem of my button-up shirt—bright blue to match my eyes. Everything seemed to be in place. Even seven years post top surgery, I still felt a thrill when I looked down at my chest to see it was flat.

After starting hormones more than ten years ago, I loved how my body now reflected who I was inside. How I could wear these shirts now when, in the beginning, I could never get them buttoned over my hips.

I'd never felt more myself than I did now.

At that thought, I straightened my shoulders, and a genuine smile stretched across my face. I'd been excited about this date since he'd messaged me a few days ago and set it up. I'd actually found him on the Daddy's Boy app, the one a friend, Ethan, had launched about five years ago. I'd only realized I was a sub, a boy, a handful of years before that. And if anyone who read my novels were paying attention, they'd likely have noticed the shift in my writing around the same time. Daddies and boys were my brand now, and my book income had taken off because of it.

I was always upfront about being transgender, both in my profile and in DMs when setting up a date. I'd been surprised once, and that was all it took. Men could be assholes about my anatomy with their invasive questions and rude comments, especially on the dating apps, but at least I didn't have to meet the bigoted fuckers in person.

But I didn't have time to dwell on that now. Because I'd glanced up just in time to see one of the most handsome men I'd ever seen in real life walk in the door, flash a ten-thousand-watt smile, then scan the nearly empty room to finally lock his stark blue eyes with mine. His flowing blond hair was shaved on the sides while the top was wavy yet impeccably styled. A single lock fell purposefully across his forehead.

My heart rate picked up as he made his way through the dimly lit, intimate dining room, his smile lighting up the entire room. I had to clench my jaw so it didn't drop.

"Hi, I'm Jason." I clasped his extended hand, and he released it just moments afterward to take the seat across from me.

I smiled, the feel of his soft skin still warming my hands as I pulled them into my lap. "Cameron. Nice to meet you." God, he's so hot.

Jason settled into his seat, his hands folded over the menu covering his place setting as he glanced around. "This is a nice place. Great choice."

I nodded. "Thanks. I've always wanted to come here."

His eyebrow raised as he opened the menu, his eyes instantly scanning it. "Oh? I assumed you'd been here before."

My head shook as I picked up my menu as well. "No, just heard good things online. I thought it might be fun to try something new." With the restaurant and with you, I hope.

Jason's cheeks flushed a little, and my eyebrows furrowed at his reaction. What was that about? "New can be good." He cleared his throat, shifting in his seat.

Seriously, what is going on?My internal alarms had started going off. Might have been nothing, or . . .

"What sounds good to you? I'm taking care of dinner, as we discussed."

"Thank you," I immediately replied, offering my most demure smile. "I was thinking the salmon."

He nodded absently, licking his lips. "I think I'll have the steak."

I wanted to wince, but I kept my face blank. The man could have whatever he wanted; I wouldn't begrudge him that. He had no way of knowing I didn't eat red meat—I couldn't stand the taste. "Excellent."

His almost too-blue eyes fixed on me then, and I wondered if something in my voice had given me away. "Something wrong with that choice, Cameron?"

Um, what?My mind started reeling. What the hell? "Uh, no, not at all."

"Then what was that tone?"

I froze, quickly skimming through my options. Then I sighed. If I couldn't be honest now, nothing would work out between us. "I'm sorry if I offended you. I honestly did not intend it. I prefer to forgo red meat for myself, that's all. But I have no issue with your choice, I promise. Please enjoy your selection."

Jason huffed. Loudly. Then he slammed his menu shut more forcefully than was proper at a place like this. This wasn't going to go well. "I think we're done here, Cameron. I can't have you looking down your nose at me for my dinner choices."

"I wasn't . . . I didn't mean . . . I—"

"It's fine." Jason tossed the napkin he'd politely placed across his lap a minute earlier on the table. The man wasn't fuming, but he was well on his way. How the hell had this escalated so quickly? Anger issues much? "I guess you saved me from a disappointing evening, so I suppose I should say thanks for that."

My mouth fell open as I gaped at him. "‘A disappointing evening'? Are you serious?" I was hissing, trying to keep my voice down. And wondering if his reaction to the "trying something new" thing was hiding a secret I really didn't want to discover.

The asshole actually smirked. "You're cute enough, but I don't think you're boy material. I mean, you already disagreed with practically the first words out of my mouth."

Now I was fuming. My words came out through clenched teeth. "Don't pretend you know me, Jason. We've only just met."

"And I'm glad I saw your true colors before this went any further. I was willing to take a chance on you"—the look in his eyes was a dead giveaway; his transphobia was showing—"but now I see I shouldn't have wasted my time."

Oh, fuck no. I was not about to let him get away with that. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?" I growled, keeping my voice low though I wanted to scream. Thank god it was early enough that the dining room was still mostly empty. "‘Take a chance' on me? What—you thought you'd see if I passed good enough for you, is that it? Thought you'd see if I was man enough for you to consider hooking up with? Tell the truth, Jason. That's it, isn't it?"

The way the color bled from his cheeks confirmed my suspicions. Which would've been satisfying had I not been fighting nausea. As it was, my stomach lurched and tumbled.

He started spluttering. "I didn't . . . I . . ."

I quirked an eyebrow, refusing to help him.

He huffed, throwing his arms out in front of him. "I've never been with a trans dude, okay?" Thankfully, he'd lowered his voice, and no one was close enough to have heard him. "I wanted to try it."

I just stared at him as the color returned to his face and heated to near surface-of-the-sun levels.

"Oh, shit. That was—"

"—insensitive at best and fetishizing at worst?" I shook my head, tossing my napkin on the table and pushing to my feet. His mouth was slightly open as if he couldn't believe what had just come out of it.

At least we were on the same page about something.

"You know what? You're not worth it. I really hope you do a lot of soul-searching and get some help, Jason. Bye." Then I turned and walked out.

I stared into the distance as I waited for my rideshare, wondering what the hell had just happened and how it had happened so quickly. That was like zero-to-the-worst-date-ever in approximately one-point-six seconds. I should've known better than to hope a date would work out in my favor; even though I thought I'd vetted him online, Jason was just the last in a long line of guys proving that men couldn't be trusted.

Then I heard a voice behind me. "Cameron?"

Oh, hell.I wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of turning around, but the bastard came around me anyway, moving into my line of sight. Why the fuck do these rideshares always take forever when I need them?

"Cameron, can I talk to you? Please?"

I stared straight ahead, but he apparently took my non-answer as consent.

"I just wanted to say I'm sorry. I don't know why . . . I'm not sure . . ." He huffed out a breath that turned to steam in the cold. "Look, I know that was really shitty of me to say. But—"

"No." I cut him off with a hand in the air. "Listen, Jason. That was really shitty of you to say. Period. I'm not here to make you feel better about yourself. That's not my job. If you're feeling guilty, that's on you. It's your job to make yourself into a better person—hell, maybe even befriend a trans person then listen when they talk so this doesn't happen again."

With his eyes downcast as if he'd been properly chastised, he looked downright pitiful, but I meant what I'd said. I was not responsible for propping up an insecure gay man's ego.

I sighed just as my rideshare mercifully pulled up to the curb. I took a step toward it before muttering over my shoulder without making eye contact. "Be good, Jason." Then I climbed in the back and was on my way home.

With yet another incredibly terrible date behind me. My excitement was destroyed, my energy used up, my hope all but gone. Yep, this whole thing was definitely hopeless.

Guess I'd been right. Again.

As I stepped out of the car into the crisp night air and dragged myself up the front walk to my cute three-bedroom Craftsman cottage, I sighed again, trying to tell myself it wasn't that bad, I'd find someone else, tomorrow was a new day, there were other gay fish in the sea, etcetera, etcetera.

It wasn't working. Men couldn't be trusted in romantic relationships, period. A string of asshole ex-boyfriends and transphobic dates had finally proven that, and I wasn't going to be played as a fool a second longer.

So, yeah. I was so fucking done.

***

By the time I had changed into my softest pair of pajama pants and a worn T-shirt, a bone-deep defeat was suffusing my being. The pursuit of true love had burned me yet again, and I was officially over it.

I usually turned to what I always did when life got tough: writing. Fiction, generally; gay romance, specifically. My stories were what kept me going, kept me from getting too jaded. Though I had to admit to being crazy jealous of my characters most of the time.

Writing was my happy place, my sacred practice, my therapy. Because I knew that no matter what my characters went through, they'd end up together. Maybe it's what kept me from being a complete cynic.

Or maybe it was all just wishful thinking.

Truthfully, I wrote romance as a way to figure out what I truly wanted, to build my dream life. With every tale I wove, I discovered more about what I desired until I had formed a near-perfect picture of the life I was destined to have.

I knew I was going to meet someone eventually—though the universe was going to have to hit me over the head with them at this point because I was over looking on my own—and what he would look like, the type of clothes he would wear, how tall he was, even how big his dick was. I mean, I knew every single detail didn't matter, but a guy could dream, right? I even knew that we would date for a respectable amount of time before he'd move in here with me, because, of course, he would fall in love with my beautiful home almost as hard as he'd fallen in love with me. Then we'd get married a couple of years later and be plant dads.

I wasn't unreasonable—he could pick the type of plants we'd buy.

I sighed as I sat down at my desk and pulled open my laptop. I'd been fighting with how to start this story, give it a really good opening scene, and thanks to failed date number four hundred eighty-three and the resulting existential crisis, nothing was coming to mind. I even hovered my fingers over the keys, hoping inspiration would strike by the simple act of starting to type, but nope. Nothing. My muse was silent, and I just stared at the cursor blinking on the blank page.

Fuck.

After several long minutes of absolutely no typing whatsoever and even more completely unsuccessful attempts at ignoring the intrusive thoughts that told me I'd never find the perfect man for me, I sighed loudly to no one but my standoffish cat, Prickles, who was lounging in a patch of rare winter sun streaming in my office window. He was aptly named, because the moment I brought him home from the shelter a few months ago after a particularly brutal date—somehow both better and worse than the one tonight—he'd snubbed his nose at me and every single guest who walked through the door with the exception of my self-proclaimed bestie, Tristan. The guy didn't even like cats, and yet, Prickles set aside his snobbery in exchange for pets from my best friend. Tristan was always happy to oblige, kind soul that he was.

By the next month, I'd somehow managed to maneuver my way into second place by associating myself with Tristan, and Prickles would reluctantly cuddle me when he sensed I most needed it.

Like now, apparently. Because at the sound of my resignation, he sauntered over to me and leapt into my lap. I bit back tears. They didn't come as easily as they had pre-testosterone, but my emotions were on a hair trigger at this point and about to overflow. It had been happening more frequently since I'd given up on love I wasn't even sure I deserved. Life had shown me time and again that I wasn't good enough to be cherished the way I longed for, anyway.

I lightly stroked the silky brown fur on my cat's back as I let a single tear fall, the loneliness overwhelming and complete.

Sniffling, I wiped my eyes before carefully setting Prickles back on the ground. His cuddle limit was about to be reached, and I was suddenly dead on my feet, even though it was barely seven.

So I just went to bed alone. Again. Always.