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I don’t care what you think.
Everything I’m writing here, for you to read, whoever you are, is true and real, but I don’t fucking care if you believe it’s true or how you feel about it. That’s not the point. The point is that I want someone to know. I don’t care if you believe it, or what you think of it, as long as you know about it, and you understand how I feel about it. Not how you feel. How I feel. Me.
I fuck Dad.
The first time we did it, I woke up the next morning in his bed, in his small one-bedroom apartment, and ran to the bathroom and puked in the toilet, I was so disgusted. I was ashamed and sick. I guess I should have been angry at him, but I wasn’t. I didn’t blame him. It never even occurred to me. Shit, I was overwhelmingly embarrassed by what he might have thought of me! Much later, I was partially ashamed of him as well, that he let it all happen. Not a lot, just a little, because it really was me, and I knew it right away that morning. That morning I was all wrapped up in my own guilt and fear, fear that I’d broken the last tenuous thread that connected me to him, and to the only foundation I’d ever known and the only one I really had left. He was my last grip on sanity and any sort of stability.
He was already in his kitchen that morning when I woke up, I think making coffee, or breakfast, like we were going to fucking play house. He must have heard me puking. Painfully bright sunlight streamed through all the windows while I too loudly wretched my shame, mixed with last night’s dinner and too many drinks, into the echo chamber of the porcelain bowl. Damn, it was loud, and along with everything else I was too conscious of how loud and gross it was. It’s almost like the guy who designed toilets intended to magnify the sound of every poor sod getting sick, to make you live your misery in surround sound.
The noises coming from the kitchen had stopped by the time I’d finished. I listened a moment to see if he’d resume. When he didn’t, I panicked, fearful that he’d come to check on me. I wiped my mouth frantically. I didn’t even brush my teeth after that. I ran to the bedroom to get my clothes, scrambling so quickly to put them on that I put the blouse on inside out. When I realized my mistake, I didn’t bother to fix it. I stuffed some clothes into my backpack, leaving my larger suitcase behind. Fuck that. I just wanted out. I raced into the short hallway, out his front door as he watched in silence, giving him no chance to ask me not to go, sprinted down the long hallway to the stairs — to hell with the slow elevator, I was used to stairs — and out and down and out onto the street.
It was fucking raining. Pouring fucking rain. I tipped my head up to the sky, catching rainwater to help wash the taste of vomit from my mouth. It pelted my face like dozens of tiny, punishing slaps.
He didn’t come down and call after me, or if he did, I didn’t hear him. I just ran through the soaking rain, straight to the bus station, changed my return ticket, and went all the way back to where I was living — which I don’t call “home”. I don’t call anyplace home. Every now and then, along the way to the bus station, tears would start streaming down my face. The rain slowed and stopped, but not my tears. A few times I had to stop, just to sob, those ugly, wracking, heaving kinds of sobs that make you think the person is choking to death or something. I felt so fucking weak! I hate being weak. I hated myself then, for a hundred different reasons. I was despicable. People passed by, and I could see in their faces they wanted to ask what was wrong, and that just made me so angry that I’d stare flames at them, glares that made it look like I was shitting down their throats. They’d see that stare, visibly flinch and turn away. Then I’d continue on as far as I could until the fucking tears and shame and horror took over again.
On the bus, soaking wet and sobbing still, I thought it through further. Incessantly, for hours and hours. I played the evening over and over in my head, asking questions, asking what ifs, asking why, asking how, asking what the fuck do I do tomorrow. What do I do for the rest of my life? That was the scariest part. Will I ever have a father again? Self respect? Hunting for blame. Blaming myself. Crying. Sobbing. Replaying it again and again and again. Trapped in hell in the shape of a bus for six fucking hours.
And trying not to remember, or admit to, how good it had all felt.
* * *
Sorry. I had to stop writing for a bit. I’m back now.
So, a little bit about my dad.
Dad left when I was almost eighteen. Well, he was thrown out. Mom — who’s a monster cunt and such a raging, pathetic alcoholic that she was almost never conscious, let alone coherent — Mom caught him in the garage, fucking the twenty year-old co-ed that lived across the street. She was a prissy, little princess named “Tanya” — yeah, really, “Tanya” — that strutted around with a brainless chirp of a voice canlı bahis and her tits and ass hanging out whenever and however she could manage it. It’s no big surprise to me that anyone and everyone probably fucked her, especially my perpetually horny dad. She was kind of plump, but that gave her big tits, way bigger than mine, and a round ass, and most guys don’t need or notice anything past that. She was also a catty, selfish cunt, but that’s another story.
For a change Mom was borderline sober, which was my Dad’s unexpected bad luck. To celebrate, I had just convinced her to go out shopping with me, I think for shoes. So going from the house to the garage, Mom and I walk in on Dad plowing into the busty neighborhood slut on the hood of Mom’s black Toyota Camry. Mom starts throwing things at Tanya, as if she’s the one to blame, and then when she runs out of nearby ammunition she wades in like a Roman Legionnaire fighting the barbarians and starts wailing on Dad with both fists. In a panic, I opened the garage door, trying just to get out and away from the chaos myself, but of course, with an avenue of escape now open, Dad and Tanya beat me to it, sprinting out with Mom right on their heels. I followed then at a more measured pace. I remember glancing at the hood of the car and seeing the slut’s sweaty butt prints right there on the hood. That one, vivid image is seared into my memory.
So Dad runs out with Tanya, both of them with nothing on below the waist, and Tanya’s tits hanging out and swinging around like water balloons. From there it almost turned into a comedy. I literally had to stifle a laugh. Mr. Tanya — Tanya’s dad — was out doing yard work. He looks over, his face turns fire-engine red, and he starts screaming “What the fuck?” Mr. Tanya immediately stomps over and attacks Dad, and they start going at it, with Tanya trying to get her dad to stop and Mom trying to help kill Dad, but the joke was on Mr. Tanya, because Dad laid him out flat with one roundhouse punch. Dad got some cuts and bruises, too, and a split lip, but he gave way more than he got.
Really, I mean, picture it. Two guys fighting, one with no pants on, and a mostly naked bimbo begging them to stop, while a menopausal drunk comically tries to get into the action. Life doesn’t imitate art. Life imitates slapstick.
Not that it was all that funny to me, when I realized where it led. I lost my fucking dysfunctional family that day. I lost my dad. For the first time, I mean.
So Tanya runs crying over to her unconscious dad, and Mom starts following Dad all over the place, until he figures out that everything is finally, really, messily over. He gave up, went inside and started packing, with Mom screaming at him like a harpy the whole time.
I virtually didn’t see him again for six years.
* * *
Excuse me. I took a break to go do laundry, get the mail, suck my dad off, and make some lunch.
So, yeah, my dad is an obsessive, skirt-chasing prick and my mom is an alcoholic cunt. Go figure. At least I know that they are, you know? I’m not kidding myself about any of it. And I know, from watching them, not to waste time kidding myself about who I am, or who I’m going to be. Apple, tree, you know? I guess I’m screwed. It explains a lot.
I almost never saw Dad for a long time after that. He wouldn’t and sort of couldn’t come around the house, except to pick up some stuff he forgot, or very occasionally to fix things that I couldn’t handle myself, but only when Mom wasn’t around or was passed out. Over time he came by less and less, and within a year not at all. Soon after that he changed jobs and moved to Baltimore, and I didn’t see him at all for years after that. We talked on the phone a couple times a year, on my birthday and near Thanksgiving, when he or I got melancholy about not having a real fucking family, but that was it. I mean, we were never all that close, or as close as I’d wished we had been. We were at first, when I was younger. But later in life, he was Dad, and I became an anxious, depressed, horny teenage girl with more important things to do, and no time for some middle-aged man that had done nothing more than raise me, feed me, clothe me, and mentor me, and spent his time fucking every girl or woman that glanced his way.
We did like the same music. He always listened to seventies and eighties crap, and I learned to like it. After he moved out, I kept blaring his music in the house, to make it feel just a little like he was still around. It bugged the shit out of Mom, too. That was another reason to play it.
I moved out as soon as I could. I wasn’t in any hurry, at first. I mean, I could do almost whatever the hell I wanted in that house, with Dad gone and Mom borderline unconscious all the time. I had a wonderful senior year in high school. I had parties, I had boys over, at least the ones that didn’t mind my tiny little tits and boy-short, black hair with bangs so long they covered my eyes. I got my nose bahis siteleri pierced, and my belly button. I learned to give good head. No matter how small your tits are, if you drop to your knees and do a good job sucking a guy off, he’ll fuck you, and he’ll come back for more. Guys are simple that way.
They had all sorts of cruel names for me at school, but I didn’t care. Life was good, for a while.
In time, living at home still got to be another hell. Without Dad there to protect me and to be Mom’s preferred target, Mom railed on me whenever she could, and when she wasn’t unconscious, she was a mean, pathetic, pitiful drunk. She played the victim card every chance she could, complaining about Dad and life and everything, all of it out to get her, and then making up for that by taking it all out on me. We screamed, and she swung her arms uselessly at me like a limp marionette, and she’d throw stuff, and I’d either duck or laugh or throw it back until I got fed up and went out to find a good cock to suck. Good times.
So, a year after I graduated from high school I finally got the hell out. To celebrate, I got another piercing, and my first ink, and I started tinting my bangs and one side of my head a deep navy blue. I still do it.
That’s when Dad and I started to talk a lot. I’d call him whenever I could, and sometimes he’d call me. I was lonely. He’s always been good at conversation, and I didn’t realize how lonely I’d feel when I struck out on my own. I mean, I was lonely living at home with Mom. I just didn’t realize it, or that it could be worse. She was shitty company, but at least she was company. I guess that’s when I realized how much I really missed my dad, too, and how much we really did used to talk.
Dad and I have always been able to talk about anything, for hours and hours. He just knows so much about everything, and he ties things in I don’t realize, making connections that keep the conversation going and going, from one place to the next, like an adventure. He filled a lot of empty time and space for me just by talking, and he taught me a lot. He made me feel connected to the world when I had isolated myself without even realizing it. I just remember listening to his voice, sometimes not even the words, just his voice, and feeling like I was in a good place, no matter what else was going on in my life and happening around me.
Dad sent me money from time to time. I got two waitressing jobs to pay for meals and a cheap studio apartment on the fifth floor of a building with a scary-old elevator and a view of the dumpster in the alley behind the building. Whenever I wished, I could see my garbage piled in with everyone else’s. The great equalizer. I took some community college courses on dumb shit. The college courses sucked, so I dropped that. Who was I kidding? I wasn’t going to get some shitty degree and an office job and have a fucking real career slash life slash future. I mean, I could, if I wanted to play that game, but forget that.
I fucked guys. I always had a sort-of boyfriend, nothing exclusive, but someone regular who would spend a little cash on me, to pick up the serious slack in my income-to-expense ratio, and to slip a drink or two into that expansive gap where I couldn’t make ends meet. I don’t mind giving head for a drink or two. I enjoy doing it, and hell, I like sex as much as the next girl. Probably more. Way more. I guess I take after my dad that way.
I just didn’t really like any of the guys all that much. They were pricks, like my father, only more so. They wanted sex on their terms. They couldn’t be trusted to hold a fart in a church. They pretty much, like me, had no future, so there couldn’t be any future with them. A million reasons plus one to use them and abuse them.
With time, I found that I like older guys better. They’re never going to settle down, which is fine by me. They’re almost always married. They usually have money, they like sex, they treat me with respect, and they stick around longer, especially if they’re married. They’re more serious, and better grounded. I like that. If I want to get rid of them, I just start talking about weddings and babies and our future. That sends them running. But while they are around, they tend to be pretty good in bed, more patient and attentive and, quite honestly, more fucking grateful than younger guys. There’s nothing like staring into a pair of time-weathered eyes as he comes inside of you. It makes you feel, I don’t know, older and wiser and, I don’t know, deeper. They’re also, for the most part, more attractive, without knowing it, which is maybe why they’re more attractive. So, yeah, I like older guys, even when they are still mostly selfish scumbags underneath. At least they make some effort to hide it.
After a few seemingly endless years of that shitty life, I went to visit my dad for a few days, for Thanksgiving. Just to take a break, you know? It wasn’t like Mom really cared about the holidays. But it was bahis şirketleri a disappointment. It turned out to be awkward, and boring, and stupid. We went out to a few dinners, he asked dumb questions, I met his too-young-for-him part-time girlfriend, surprise, surprise. Then I got on a bus and went home, and we didn’t try to repeat that nonsense again for a while.
But we still talked a ton on the phone.
I just went back to the same boring shit, a mouth too often tasting of beer and crotch sweat and cum, the same useless scumbag older guys paying the tab, the same tedious, pointless waitressing jobs, the same unchanging view through a narrow window of my garbage piled on top of everyone else’s in a dumpster in a back alley.
So yeah, after yet a few more years or so of that shit, with nothing happening and nothing ever changing and no point to fucking anything, when I was almost twenty-six, I saved up for a bus ticket and went to visit Dad again in Baltimore. I actually thought I might just move there, and get him to help smooth out my life. Make a big change. You know, so I could give blow jobs only when I wanted to, not as a form of currency.
Yeah. That was the plan. How could I fuck that up, right? I mean, how could I make my life any fucking worse?
Dumb question.
* * *
After that night, after getting fucked by my dad and running home through the pelting rain, I got off of the bus and went home, freezing cold and still fucking soaked to the bone after six brutal hours of sopping-wet self-recrimination. I took three showers, trying to warm my body and at the same time wash away the shame. I broke down crying again during the second shower. I lay in bed and couldn’t sleep, couldn’t slow my mind enough to even know I was lying in bed. My head was everywhere at once, past, present, future, Baltimore. I took some pills, then some more, and finally I woke up at noon the next day.
My cell buzzed. I tried to turn it off without noticing that it was from my dad, but of course it was, it and two prior calls, and of course I noticed and started freaking out again. At least I got away from crying about it. I hate crying.
And I had to get to work, or I was going to be fired, which I could not afford.
I got a new tattoo then, right fucking then, two days after my dad fucked me. I was still a super mess. At times I was kind of catatonic. Other times I was just angry at the world, or depressingly somber. I tried writing poetry, which I’m pretty good at. I look back now at what I wrote that day and it still makes me cry. Even though I got it all wrong.
No, I won’t share it with you. My poems are for me and me alone. Piss off.
I already had three tattoos, one on my ankle, one on my wrist, and one on my neck, behind my left ear. They’re all small, discrete, single-color jobs. They each mean something special, and no, I won’t share that with you either. The point is that I got another, and what I got says a lot about what I was feeling, but more importantly what I wanted. I didn’t know it at the time. I didn’t think it through and say “oh, this is perfect.” I just picked it, or so I thought, but in retrospect, now I know why.
Where I put it is important, too.
At first I was going to go for a broken heart, but that was too obvious, and honestly, wrong. Even then I could see that. My heart was aching, but it wasn’t broken. And I didn’t even want to say it was my heart. It wasn’t some love affair gone wrong. I wasn’t dumped by some loser guy. This was way beyond that.
But still, my heart was involved, so I got that, a simple black outline of a heart. Not red. Red is romantic. My heart was black. Inside the heart I added two drops. If they’d been black, people might have mistaken them for tears, but they were way more than tears. My heart was bleeding. The drops I made red, two of them, one large, one small, two drops of blood.
The whole tattoo is only an inch high, on the bottom, inner curve of my left breast, somewhere that someone could only see it when I’m naked and exposed, but where I will see it every damned time I look in the mirror after a shower, to remind me that I’m strong, that a lot of things can happen to me, and I can and will bleed, but I will not bleed out. It will hurt, but it won’t kill.
I will bleed, but I will not bleed out.
Fucked up, right?
* * *
Sorry, again. I had to go to work, and when I got home, I really, really badly needed to ride my lover’s dick. My dad’s dick, in case you’ve forgotten, or if I haven’t made that insanely clear to you by now. He was sitting on the couch, watching a game or the news or I don’t know what and I didn’t care. I just walked in, walked over without saying hi or anything, straddled him, hiked up my skirt, and stared into his eyes while I ground my panty-covered vulva against his crotch to make him instantly hard. No kissing allowed. That’s not our usual way of making love, nothing so distant and detached, we usually kiss like crazy, but it’s what I wanted today. I wanted to be fucked, not loved. So I ground his cock and stared into his eyes with a ferocity that would scorch his brain and make him my slave.
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