Lucas feels sick with anxiety.

I went from feeling scared and nervous about dating my own mother, to deeply insecure about my own body. How could she even say I was getting fat when I looked like a formless blob in the clothes she picked out for me? There was a part of me that wanted to protest, but I was scared of causing any sort of scene in a fancy restaurant, let alone in front of my cruel mom.

My momma’s handsome eyes pierced through me from across the candlelit table. Those intense, icy blue irises sent my stomach into knots, and the way her womanly arm muscles flexed in her sleeveless dress reminded me of how much power she held over a weak, disobedient boy like me. An ex-MMA fighter could overpower any man she wanted to, and the thought of how small I was--even for a guy--made me second guess even daring to mess up this date. There was a pit of anxiety in my stomach, a little rush of panic that I needed to escape from.

“Mom, may I use the restroom?” I asked, hoping she wouldn't hear the tremor in my voice.

"Pfft, I’m not sure what it is with boys and using the bathroom." The overbearing woman said, making my breath halt over her non-answer. "Just hurry back, sweetie, a boy shouldn't keep his date waiting."

"Th-thanks, mommy. I'll be quick." I stood up from my seat on unsteady legs, and gave her a quiet smile.

On my walk over to the men’s bathroom I couldn’t help but watch the waiters strut around the dining room floor in their cute, manly uniforms. Even if they were the subjects of catcalling and harassment from the kinds of horny women who couldn’t keep their hands to themselves, I envied these waiters. Unlike me, they got to wear cute short-shorts and mini skirts, with tight, fashionably matching tops. Momma said she wanted to protect my purity, but I never saw why I had to dress like a troll to make that happen. Even mom was wearing prettier clothing than me-- she was a woman in a sexy cocktail dress on a date with a scared boy in baggy old rags.

I felt queasy when I entered the bathroom, but instead of anything like throwing up, I just stood in front of the mirror. And then I started crying. I didn't think my mother wanted me to feel bad, but she was always so cruel. She never let me have friends, dress cute, or anything else I liked-- and now she wanted to consume the small remnants of my private life. My huffing breaths slowed to quiet hiccups when I remembered I was on a date right now. The image I found when I looked in the mirror was a boy with mascara running down his cheeks, so I mopped the black streams up and steadied my breaths as I prepared to go back out.

I prayed to the Goddess above that mom would treat me well for the rest of tonight, and reached for the bathroom door.