My partner and I had just broken up. It wasn't that big of a deal, but she had probably been the one I was most ready to settle down with. We'd been together for a year and I had thought that we were on a great track that had a promising future. And I was optimistic that within the coming years there would be equal rights and at least general acceptance of our lifestyle. But when I told her that I didn't think that I was truly a "lesbian", she took offense. It didn't matter that I was genuinely attracted to her, or that we had great chemistry. In the end, I wasn't "real". My bisexuality was a problem and it brought to an end what seemed so bright only days before. As a result I ended up back home over Valentine's Day weekend.
That's kind of how I got into the situation that I currently find myself in. I was thinking that I would just get some time away from the pressures of school and the break up and take a breather. My sisters, normally my support crew, were off enjoying their own lives in different parts of the world and were probably out working it with someone special for the big February 14th. Not me. I would just be home alone with my dad.
That's the other part of my situation, my dad. I love him to death, but sometimes he is a bit immature. That and he is a typical guy. Despite growing up with a coop full of hens, he never did learn much about us. Three daughters and our mother and still never quite got clued in. So when I asked to come over for the romance holiday he had promised me a fun care-free time.
And he had delivered. He managed to take my mind off my break up, my ex, and getting acclimated to a life of singleness all over again. Course, he managed to do that by getting us both smashed. I had driven the hour from campus to the house I had grown up in and had arrived to find a sizable amount of alcoholic beverages and liquors spread out across the counter tops. Typical dad.
The plan for Valentine's Day was to drink. He had about a dozen dumb comedy movies to watch, ranging from the "Three Stooges" right up until the latest straight to DVD "National Lampoon". We had started drinking right away. At first it was cocktails and lighter beers. But by the time we had gotten to "Animal House" we were crashing back shots of the hard stuff in some random rhythm or game. I think the game was based on eighties catch phrases. We each were allowed to choose one cliché and every time a character used it, the other person had to take a shot.
Needless to say, by the time midnight hit, we were both totally smashed. In fact, I don't really remember midnight at all. I just remember hitting the bed. When I woke four hours later, I had a splitting headache and extraordinarily parched throat. I was downstairs in the den bedroom and my role model father was past out beside me, snoring heavily. I tried waking him, but he didn't budge, so I went to the kitchen for several glasses of water.
I was a little surprised by the intensity of the mess we had left and the amount of alcohol we had consumed. I am normally not a heavy drinker and never have really pushed the limits of my intake, but I figured out that I wasn't a light weight that night. Cans, bottles, glasses, and cartons all littered the rooms. Smatterings of snacks and wrappers joined the mix. After finding a somewhat clean glass, that I was pretty sure was mine (the lipstick on the edge kind of was a give away), I poured a glass of water. The filtered stuff was in the fridge, and I was a bit fearful that light would inflict a rise in the already devastating headache.
I guzzled water for a good ten minutes, weakly supporting myself against the edge of the sink until I was sure my bladder was going to blow. I took what had to be a record pee and probably fell asleep sitting on the toilet for a bit too. When I finally made my grand and lady-like exit from the restroom I decided to change and head back to bed. My bag was right by the door where I left it, so I changed into my nightie (a XXL ACDC T-shirt that had been a gift from a friend) and managed to wobbly make my way back to the bedroom.
My dad had managed to move a little farther into the center of the bed and was still snoring quite loudly. Still a little buzzed, I giggled listening to his deep nasally breaths. I had never known that he snored and wondered if this was something related to his drinking or aging. He wasn't really an old man by any means. In early fifties, he was still in what he called combat fitness, a silly term he had picked up from a brief kick in the Marines when he was a youth. His black hair was now laced with gray, which resulted in him having that refined regality that only older men can get. His sharp jaw line and broad shoulders finished the look perfectly. Pretty handsome.
Me, and my sisters, all had gotten our mother's looks. The same long brunette hair, broad curls, coy dark eyes, and pouty lips. We also had gotten her figure- long legs, full chest and hips, and small waists. We could have been models if we had been born ten years earlier, before the advent of the bulimic/ anorexic super model. If we wanted, we probably could still model for plenty of publications. None of them reputable.
But at the point in time, I wasn't thinking about myself, just how cute he looked. It was kind of one of those standing trance things that happens when you are tired and creatively inebriated. After waking from another doze off, I crawled back into bed and snuggled my way up close to him. One of his legs was kicked out, taking up the lower half of the bed so I pushed in, practically spooning. I tried going to sleep, but found myself a little caught off guard by a wave of emotional remembrance. It started with my ex, progressed its way to my mom, then back to my ex again.
I was thinking about the time when I had brought up my bisexuality. We had just finished a regular good night round of love making and were chatting afterwards. She had brought up the possibility of us having a child together, either through adoption or in vitro. I had asked how she would feel if we had a mutual guy friend of ours do it. I had told her I preferred knowing who the dad was and would enjoy doing it the natural way. She had made some off the cuff remark about me being straight and I had just come out and told her that I wasn't entirely convinced that I was completely gay.
Then the fight had started and we had been split up by the time we woke up the next morning. A lot of stuff happens at night for me. And this would be no exception.
By the time I had broken from my daydream I realized that I was a bit aroused. That wasn't unusual as I was almost always horny, but usually regularly satiated during the course of a day. Going one day, much less four days without sex, was a daunting task. And now I had the familiar glowing warmth beginning in the pit of my stomach and spreading downward. But what made it unusual was the fact that I was in bed with my dad.
Only to complicate things, I could feel my dad's penis pushing against my backside, just between my upper thighs and behind the rear of my cleft. Like most guys, he had a perpetual hard on that was rising at the most inopportune of times.
With my labia just beginning to feel the swelling of desire, his mushroom shaped head was a curse. I had tried to ignore its contact at first, but found myself having a growing fascination with its point of contact and the movements it made when he breathed in and out in a deep sleep.
I am sure that some of you are a little grossed out by this revelation. But as I have already said, I had been drinking and wasn't in possession of my full faculties. Considering this, I hope you can cut me some slack for this and for what comes next.
