My dad and I didn't talk about our first intimate encounter. I think neither one of us could, really. That evening, he avoided me and went to his room early and didn't come out. I wasn't sure what exactly he felt. Was he angry at me? I had teased him, after all, with my 20-year-old body in the best shape I'd ever had. For reasons I didn't quite understand, I had flirted with him, without even being fully aware of where I wanted it to go.
And I had gotten him to rub himself on me until he came.
But what did I want now? Maybe I wanted more. Or maybe I thought I did -- some fantasy-part of my brain, where consequences didn't matter, wanted to take another step. Or it was my body -- I loved girls, but needed the occasional man's touch. And, on one level, getting that touch from HIM made perfect sense; he would be the only man on planet earth who could give it to me without an agenda, without a game playing in the back of his mind.
It was so confusing. My thoughts didn't make a lot of sense to me; what I knew for sure was that I was in bed, and I wore only a t-shirt, and I was rubbing myself really hard and thinking about him. Was he doing the same?
* * *
He was gone when I got up in the morning. That whole day my nerves were shot. At lunch I drank two beers just to calm down; I even searched mom's room for valium. While I didn't find it, I did find a porno magazine in my dad's bed stand -- I just could help looking. The magazine featured girls who were 'barely legal' -- around my age. They looked like candy I wanted to lick from head to toe myself. So - here was another thing my dad and I had in common.
Finally, I had to get out of the house. I want to the local bookstore to find some good chick lit to read, but inevitably found myself in the erotica section. I read stories about steamy lesbian sex -- and so the distraction I sought turned out to only further deepen my entry into a world of moods I couldn't control.
My situation wasn't helped by the sight of an adorable brunette working in the music section. Seeing everything through the prism of my transformed state, I confidently chatted her up, and though she didn't respond to my flirting, I learned that her name was Donna and got her number to "hang out sometime." So, who knows what might come of that? But looking into her sexy blue eyes and lusting after her gorgeous mouth, with its wide smile and quick, pink tongue, made me crazy horny.
When I got home, daddy was in his study. His mood was still so hard to read. So I went upstairs to my room and put on my workout outfit: gray running shorts with pink stripes and a pink athletic bra. Barefoot. I put my hair in pigtails like one of the girls in his magazine.
He had classical music on his study and there was a loud part playing when I skipped into the room. He had his back to me; he sat on a stool in the corner, feeding junk mail into a shredder. He was wearing a button-up shirt and jeans.
Evidently he hadn't heard me come in, since when I put my hands over his eyes and said "Guess who?" he jumped hard enough that he actually slipped off the stool and hit the hardwood floor.
"Daddy, are you ok?" I knelt beside him and caressed his face.
He seemed flustered. "Yes, sweetie, I'm fine. You scared me though -- I didn't even think you were home."
I was so relieved that this little mishap had broken what felt like unbearable tension. "Well, if you're not hurt, do you want to join me for a workout?"
Daddy started to sit up when he said, "I think I'll take the day off from the gym, sweetie."
"Well...ok. I would make this a rest day for me, too, but I have to work off some crazy energy I'm feeling." Dad got up and was moving papers around. I stood up, too, and idly picked up a snow globe and shook it. "Any thoughts on what I should work on?"
"Well, yesterday we worked on..." Big uncomfortable pause.
I looked down and studied my fingernails. "Daddy, that...that doesn't have to happen again. It was just something we felt in the moment."
He nodded his head. "Well," I said, "I'll be working out in case you change your mind."
* * *
He didn't. The entire time I spent in the gym that day, I kept looking toward the stairs, expecting to see his muscled calves making their way down to me at any second, conscious of the pose I'd be in when he could see me. And so it was a distracted workout, but furious too, like something that stood in for the cold shower I really needed.
At this point, my mind had fully given itself over to the fantasy of being with him. It had dropped its defense mechanisms and yielded to the images of his powerful body above my fit, delicate little self. Near the end, a sweaty heap from drumming my legs on the treadmill at a near-sprint for the last 20 minutes of my jog, I leaned against the wall and felt my hand slip into my running shorts, where my fingers found the delicate and tender skin on either side of my moistening lips. I wasn't fully masturbating but, rather, teasing myself, thinking about how he was teasing me.
Tormenting myself, in a way. Wanting him to come down the stairs and see me in this state. Thinking about what it would be like to feel his fingers down there, while he kissed me, hard, with tongue, until - until he put himself in my mouth. Oh! I couldn't think of it anymore. My quivering legs eventually carried me up the steps, and I felt how exhausted I'd made myself. I did take a cold shower, which turned into a warm bath, which turned into a deep and dreamless sleep.
* * *
The next night, we watched a movie, a romantic comedy that we both thought was stupid but funny. We enjoyed making fun of its ridiculous plot and jokes that you could see coming up the freeway. It did get us talking again about dating, and when I asked him about the girlfriends he had before meeting Mom, he seemed eager to describe his experiences in high school and college. I was just as eager to learn more and as he told me about his first kiss (with a Korean girl, when they were both in the 7th grade), to his first sexual experience (with a pert little blonde three agonizingly long years later), I pumped him for details. Especially about what the girls looked like.
"You really like hearing this stuff, huh?" he asked.
"Absolutely. I love to learn every detail."
"Well let me show you my shoebox."
"Is that a euphemism you used to play on these girlfriends," I asked, pinching him.
"No dummy, but very funny. It's my secret cache of pictures and notes from these girls, hidden away, in the closet in our bedroom."
Five minutes later, we're sitting on the bed in my parents' bedroom, looking at pictures of dad's old girlfriends. They were all cute in their own way. One was a real stunner. A brunette beauty with long legs and a smile that was joyfully ecstatic and yet somehow expressive of a really dirty mischievousness underneath. There were a series of pictures of her -- including two nudes.
"Who is this gorgeous thing, daddy?"
He took the picture from my hand and looked at it with a barely audible sigh. "She was my college love. The most ... I don't know, intense relationship I'd ever had. A roller coaster. Every Tuesday she wanted to break up, and every Friday she wanted to get married. That kind of thing."
"Wow," I said. "Kinda girl that gets a hold of you, huh?"