Ah, the modern suburban family.

Daddy works a good job, Mommy smiles pretty in her pearls, and the kids all bright-eyed and sticky-fingered. The perfect family.

What his father drilled into his thick skull since the first time he dared cry over a scraped knee.

Marry a nice obedient wife. Bitch.

Have a bundle of children. Ungrateful hellspawns.

And get a good ol’ American job. He’d rather blow his brains out than spend another day being mayor.

So then why—why—has Richard been fucking a man?

It ain’t pretty, it ain’t poetic. And in the good ol’ U.S. of A. even touching another man too friendly would get the cops called on you. Maybe some of the good ol’ boys would beat the shit out of you behind the station. Maybe you’d end up in the loony bin with wires strapped to your head, praying they’d fry the filth right outta you.

But today?

He’s whistling.

The kind of whistle you’d off of some schmuck in a cereal commercial. He hasn’t felt this good since before he married his wife.

Speaking of that passive-aggressive saint in the kitchen—well, she’s burning holes in his head, spatula in one hand, a frying pan sizzling.

“You’re in a good mood,” she says, suspiciousness curling under her words.

He hums. “Guess I am.”

And why the hell wouldn’t he be? Last night, while the old bat was at bingo, gabbing about recipes, Richard was bent over their bed, getting his brains fucked out by the neighbor.

Even thinking about it had his lips twitching into a grin. He snaps off a piece of toast, leaving crumbs behind like a half-assed apology. “Headin’ to work,” he says, knowing damn well he hasn’t set foot in his office for weeks.

Out the door, car purring and there you are.

The perfect husband. The kind who pretends he doesn’t eye Richard the same way Richard eyes him. Shirt sleeves rolled, sweat beads on your arms as you paint your wife’s picket fence.

He slows the car, grin slipping as he sticks his head out the window, cigarette dangling.

“Fuck you doin’? Thought we were supposed to go out.”