28 short tales in 28 days. #4 The boys don't cry

That is my boy! That is what my father said when I was born, it is the story that does not get tired of telling me, even everyone proudly assured him that I did not cry for a second when I left my mother's womb, that I they gave the strongest spanking in the history of mankind and still not a tear I let go.

My room is full of sports equipment, balls, bats, boxing gloves, all my dad gave them to me in the hope of becoming a sports hero, but despite his effort to make me the next Messi or the next Lebron to me, sports activity always seemed boring.

He insisted, he told me that children have to be athletes, that in their family the first fag was not born and that I would not be the exception at the same time that from the bottom of my eyes to contain crying meant the difference between receiving a beating or keep listening to the boring speech of why it is a blessing to be male.

For me it was overwhelming to hide what I am to assume what he wants me to be. Every time he sees me fail in sports, he shows his disappointment towards me, but I avoid crying in front of him so as not to ignite his retrograde machismo.

Little by little I was discovering what turned me on in life: being a stylist, it was like a vocation that I could not hide despite my father's scolding and bad gestures. Soon that pride he felt for "his only male" was diluted in a sea of ​​disappointment when I confessed that I, his only male found love between the Y chromosomes and testosterone excesses.

"The fagot inherited it from you family" my father recriminated my mother. "It's just that you were very soft on him" he kept infusing as the worst blasphemies came out of his mouth along with two slaps.

once he took me out of bed and took me to a brothel, from his perspective a "bad girl" is the best cure against homosexuality. To this stupidity I understood that I had no place in that home and less under a roof with that man and I left, I never saw him again ... until yesterday in his bed a step away from death.
When he was old, the years of solitude made him change, he missed his only boy, and when he saw me at the side of his bed, a tear came down his cheek, he understood that the boys also cry.

Carlos D. Pérez Guerrero. /@warai777