Father and Daughter

It was with both excitement and dismay that I waited for my daughter's arrival; after three months of seeking for a job, living off her miniscule savings, she asked for help. It was crystal clear she loathed herself for asking to live with me for a while; I was her desperate last resort.

I stood outside the train station, hangover and smoking solemnly a cigarette; I looked at all the other young women that walked past me, observing their tight little asses, their long hair, their firm bodies. Suddenly, I recalled Faith, my ex-neighbor's daughter; how alive she made me feel, when she had me in her mouth. How alive I felt, when she lay atop of me, her cherry lips pressed tight on mine. Her giggle, when my uncombed beard tickled her, was the sound of life itself.

I dragged long from my cigarette and the bad memories returned too; when Jim, her father, found out about our little affair. He cracked three of my ribs with a baseball bat; and I'd bet all my money (the few bucks in my pocket, that is) he'd have just as easily bashed my head in to a bloody, unrecognizable pulp had it not been for Faith to stop him. (N.B. Who in the hell names their kid Faith? Though, to be fair, for a little while, that girl did make me have faith in life, so...perhaps, that middle-class wannabe had a valid point.)

"Hey, Dad," a weary, familiar voice brought me out of my somber contemplations.

"Hey, honey," I responded with a rusty voice. "How was the trip?"

"Long and tiring," she offered me a faint, sad smile; then, and mostly out of subconscious duty, kissed me fleetingly on the cheek.

I took her surprisingly light duffle bag—the only piece of luggage she carried—and led her to my car; in the meantime, I just couldn't help but notice her outfit, just like almost every guy around turning their heads for a second, longer look.

Tight daisy dukes, barely containing her wonderfully heart-shaped ass; a short leather jacket, unzipped, to reveal she was only wearing a bikini top underneath it. Her ash-blonde hair was long and curly on the edges, just like her mother's, while her hazel eyes, the only thing she inherited from me, were hidden behind her expensive-looking black shades.

"Still driving this dumpster fire, huh?" She chuckled, cruelly, when she climbed in my car.

"It's a good car," I rebuked; it wasn't. It was considered merely decent, when I bought it, from a used cars dealership, 23 years ago.

"If you plan on driving off a cliff, or something," she added.

"When did you start smoking, Elizabeth?" I exclaimed, aghast, when she rolled a cigarette with just one hand.

"My name's Liz," she said apathetically and lit the fat, joint-like cigarette. "You're the only one insisting on calling me Elizabeth."

"That's because that's your name."

"Right..." she sighed theatrically. "Anyway, can you please call me Liz? I'm not a 60-year old grandmother baking cookies."

"Fine," I resigned, shaking my head.

Elizabeth always had a temper, and quite the rebellious attitude; ever since she reached adolescence she began dressing provocatively and, all in all, she'd do whatever the hell she wanted, blatantly ignoring my suggestions.

In hindsight, I played a big part in that; I was never too stern with her, never yelled at her, never told her with whom to go out. I was always afraid that, if I were too protective and/or stern, she'd grow up to resent me and develop a subconscious desire to punish me, effectively ruining her life. In the end, I failed to find the perfect balance between strictness and friendliness and that, combined with her mother's overall carefree attitude, had as a result for Elizabeth to become the "school slut" (at the very least, I overheard her being referred as such on several occasions, from both her schoolmates and their fathers).

"That's your place, huh?" She frowned, when she stepped into my apartment on the third floor of an old, concrete condominium.

"Not the palace you had imagined?" I asked, as I locked and barred the door.

"I wouldn't exactly call this place a palace," she replied coldly.

I showed her to her room—formerly my room; a small bedroom, which could barely fit a double bed and a wardrobe. I had moved myself to the tiny room next to the bathroom, hardly able to fit a foldout bed.

"Still reading Bukowski, huh?" She giggled, when she sat down on the worn out couch and picked up my copy of Hot Water Music.

"Yeah, why?" I threw myself on the armchair, desperately longing for a soothing, long sip of whiskey.

"Nothing," she shrugged and offered me a wide smile of mocking contempt. "I guess, I just figured you'd have outgrown him by now."

"What's so wrong with Bukowski?" I inquired.

"He just wrote, because at high school he could not get laid. He's just like that other great literary hero, Hemingway. They both hid their insecurities behind their macho attitude, painting themselves as these big great manly rebels to compensate for their shortcomings."

"I take it, then," I smirked, "you've already written your For Whom the Bell Tolls."

She just frowned and remained silent; her face had turned faintly crimson.

"I'm going to take a shower," she announced, her lower lip still trembling.

I poured me a tall glass of bourbon and gulped it down; I refilled it instantly and stood by the window, staring down at the crowded street. Hoodlums, pushers, addicts, petty criminals. Definitely not the best of neighborhoods and unquestionably not the kind of place I could see Elizabeth walking around alone, especially the way she dressed.

As I had another long, mind-soothing sip, I recalled the clothes she threw on the bed, when she unceremoniously unpacked her bag; nothing long enough to even brush her knees, no pants, no long dresses. Only daisy dukes, mini dresses, high heels...and while I tried to remain openminded—she was, after all, an adult—I couldn't help but worry and...recognize my failure as a father.

Most of all, however, I feared for what could happen, if she were to walk around the streets dressed in these clothes. I swilled down the bourbon, when the running water stopped.

My jaw nearly dropped, when she emerged out of the bathroom wrapped in only a towel barely covering her pussy and ass; she sat on the couch once again crossing her long, thin legs high.

Even though I desperately wanted to, I just couldn't stop staring at her; her wet hair sat heavily on her naked shoulders, her face remained youthful and beautiful...she reminded me of her mother, when we had first met, back when we still were madly in love.

And then, due to my intense staring, I noticed what I had somehow missed before; her breasts had grown immensely. I don't know how I missed that quite noticeable change earlier, especially considering her clothes did not particularly conceal her breasts, but...now, it was clear as daylight. They were practically staring back at me, while they were near to bursting out of the towel.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" She snapped, and her voice brought me out of the trance-esque state I was in.

"Nothing, I just..." I put my glass down on my desk, next to my laptop, and sat back down on the armchair, resting my head on my fists and looking at the coffee table. "Did you get breast implants?"

"What kind of a question is this?" She protested.

"I just...noticed...a difference," I mumbled; I don't know why I needed to know. It was her savings she would have wasted on the operation—or, best case scenario, her mom's new boyfriend's money.

"Well, yeah," she said after a moment of silence. "You like them?" She winked at me.

"Why did you do it?" I tried, as much as I could, to ignore the suggestive nature of her wink and voice.

"Don't know," she shrugged, her smile widening. "Just got tired of being too skinny and flat, I guess."

"That's not an answer, Elizabeth."

"It's Liz," she retorted.

"Don't try to change the subject," I rebuked hoarsely. "That kind of operation is expensive; how could you afford it?"

"None of your goddamn business!" She erupted. "Did I ever ask you for money? Huh? All I had was that savings account; how I used that money, which was mine, is my business, and my business only."

"It's because I know how much money you had in that account," I continued, unable to let go, "I'm asking. There's no way you could afford both breast implants and tuition fees."

"I managed," she got up hurriedly. "Do you have a dry-blower?"

"Bottom drawer, under the sink," I rubbed the bridge of my nose, my gaze once more wandering involuntarily to her swaying hips; the towel was lifted just enough to offer me a glimpse of her buttocks.

She shut the bathroom door and I poured me a strong one. It was one of the handful occasions in my lifetime, where bourbon did not help.

* * * * *

"Is that bar any good?" She pointed at the window.

I lifted my eyes away from the copy of Of Time and the River and for a moment I was speechless.

"It's just a watering hole," I finally replied, when she repeated the question. "Not a place for you and definitely not a place to go dressed like this."

"Oh, come on!" She chuckled, dryly. "You didn't lecture me on my clothes, when I was 15; are you really going to start now, dad?"

I just stared at her in her knee-high boots, tight leather miniskirt, and low-neck white shirt. Two unanswerable questions tormented my mind: 1) how could I have failed so miserably in raising her? and 2) why in all that's holy was I feeling blood rushing down south and my prick throbbing?

"All I'm saying," I protested timidly, "is that it's not a good idea for you to visit that bar, especially dressed like that."

"That's some grade-A horseshit!" She chuckled. "Horseshit; isn't that what your hero there would say?"

"I'm not reading..." I sighed in resignation. "By the way, adult or not, I'm still your father and I'd appreciate it, if..."

"Oh," she finally turned to face me, her eyes filled with scorn. "Now you're going to talk to me about respect, huh? All right...so, when you stayed home all day and night long, drinking yourself to oblivion to forget you were only good enough to write stupid articles about meaningless topics, you didn't care about respect, but, now that you're living in skid row, because you don't have mom's paychecks to support you any longer, you think you can command it?

"You have some weird notions about respect, dad."

I was helplessly dumbfounded; Elizabeth had always been calm, serene, the child that never talked back—despite her often rebellious acts, she never talked back. And, suddenly, she had become someone else; her outfit choices notwithstanding, she'd become more vindictive, bitter...she had basically transformed into her mother!

And there was nothing I could do; I knew I had fucked up big time, hence, I did not want to start acting out the solemn, somber father. The role never truly fitted me to begin with, let alone now, living in a tiny apartment filled with nothing but second- and third-hand copies of old novels and half-empty bottles.

"Look," she said in a much calmer voice, "I'm going over there for a drink; you can either join me, to protect me, or, you can just stay here."

"Fine," I exasperated and slammed the book down on the unstable coffee table. "Let's go for a drink; why the hell not?"

"That's the spirit," she patted me on the back. "We'll just have a drink, like father and daughter, huh?"

"Sure," I nodded, while I scanned her thoroughly—I'm not sure it's how most father and daughter outings are supposed to be, but, I kind of had to play with the cards I was dealt.

The collective gasp that filled the beer- and urine-reeking barroom felt like a frozen dagger through my heart; everybody kept staring at Elizabeth hungrily, while she sauntered her way to the counter, gracefully wiggling her ass.

Even I could not stop staring at her long, thin legs, perfectly toned by her boots. I did overhear a few whispers of the "is he really tapping that?" variation; I tried mentally to shrug it all off, but, something in me was burning with the desire to just pluck everyone's eyes out, just so they would stop lustfully, and hungrily, stare at my daughter.

"Here you go, dad," she said with a bright smile, as she handed me a glass of bourbon neat. "It's Wild Turkey; did not expect this place to have such good booze."

We clinked glasses and swilled the smooth whiskey down; I was utterly shocked to see my daughter treating bourbon as if it was merely water. I motioned to Peter, the long haired bartender, for another round and he nodded approvingly with a smirk in his eyes I never before had encountered.

I paid for the round and we both drank long.

"Hey, man," Trevor, one of the barflies, and one of my best friends, clapped me on the back.

"Hey," I said, rather absentmindedly. "How's it going?"

"Who's the babe, man? How the fuck did you land a sweet piece of ass like that?"

"She's my daughter," I reproached him.

"You mean," he chuckled, his expression remaining unaltered, "that she came out of your shriveled, pathetic ball sac? How the fuck did that happen?"

"Thanks," I told him with a frown.

"Just kidding, man," he patted me again on the back, and clinked his beer bottle on my glass. "Whiskey, huh? Sold any articles?"

"A couple," I said.

"How's the novel going?" He insisted—and while he talked, I kept staring at Elizabeth, who was chatting up Jerry, the in-house hustler.

"It's not," I replied. "I've come to terms I don't have what it takes."

"Peter here," Trevor insisted and his wide smirk had my fists clenched tight, "just had two poems accepted in The New fucking Yorker."

"No shit," I spun on the stool to look at Peter. "Congrats, man."

"Thanks," Peter nodded in apathy. "It's not a big thing, really...I think they just got tired of my constantly sending them stuff and accepted a couple to get rid of me."

"Don't sell yourself short, man!" Trevor told him. "They're pretty good! Even if you kind of talk about us in a derogatory way!"

"I'm just writing things how I see them, you old drunk," Peter chuckled genuinely. "Anyway," he sighed. "These are on me," he placed on the counter three bottles of beer and three beerchasers. "Cheers, you hopeless fucks," we drank to his published poems.

"You should probably talk your daughter out of it, man," Trevor warned me, when Elizabeth and Jerry set the pool table up.

"I doubt she'll listen to me," I said, already resigned.

In spite of how perverted it felt, my jaw dropped, when Elizabeth bent over the table to break the table. Her skirt hiked up and everyone in the bar could clearly see her bare pussy. Jerry, leaning on his cue, tilted his head sideways theatrically for a better view.

The beer bottle in my hand almost broke from the firmness of my grip; I drank long, somehow trying to soothe my boiling rage. There was nothing I could do; it wasn't getting into a fight that bothered me (I had fought pretty much everybody in the barroom at least once, and even though I lost the vast majority of those fights, I didn't mind getting into another bloody, drunken brawl), but, the fact Elizabeth was quite content with the whole situation.

When Jerry rubbed the bottom of his cue on her bare ass and she quivered and giggled, I almost hopped off the stool, more than eager to punch the smirk off his ugly, scarred face. But, Elizabeth simply winked at him and spread her legs slightly farther apart, and shot the cue ball—doing a horrible job at breaking.

"Nice shot," Jerry smiled at her. He took position on the table.

"What's wrong, man?" Trevor asked me, probably worried about the wicked smirk that must have appeared on my face—I was considering shoving a cue all the way up to the dense fuck's ass.

"Nothing," I shook my head, trying to eradicate the admittedly tempting thoughts. "I'm just..."

"Hope you've got the cash to cover what your daughter will lose to the motherfucker," Trevor continued.

"She keeps talking about how she's an adult, how I should stop trying to help her," I said, desperate to maintain my devil may care façade. "She's a big girl, she can figure shit out on her own."

"Man," Trevor's voice suggested a slight fear, "you know Jerry; he's not very kind to people that can't pay up their debts."

"Well, I don't owe the fucker anything."

"You know better, I guess," Trevor said, with disappointment clearly evident in his voice.

Naturally, I knew shit; though I was trying to act like I didn't care, my heart was in my throat, as Jerry easily won the first game. Elizabeth immediately asked for a rematch, which Jerry was all too eager to accept.

And, once more, Elizabeth could not even properly shoot the cue ball; hardly able to hold the cue right! And she asked for a third match! Again, double-or-nothing stakes!

God damn it, Elizabeth! I wanted to yell at her, to go grab her from the arm and drag her back to my apartment. Four games, four losses, and she now owed Jerry 600 bucks!

"Alright, one last match?" She asked him. "Double or nothing."

"Do you even have the money to cover what you already owe?" Jerry asked, visibly growing tired of the charade. "I mean..."

"I'll tell you what," she told him, her expression way too solemn. "If I win, you give me 1200 bucks."

"And when I win?" Jerry cornered her against the wall. "Do you even have that kind of money?"

"If you win," she said, purposefully raising her voice, "you can fuck me right here on the pool table, in front of everybody; including my dad." She pointed straight at me.

"He's your father?" Jerry chuckled in sheer astonishment. "You heard the deal, man?" He asked me.

"Yeah, and I don't approve," I fired back, finally getting off the stool.

"Take it easy, old timer," Jerry said mockingly to me. "If you don't want to watch, you don't have to. But, I'm still going to fuck your daughter on this table, man. To the delight of the rest of these losers!"

"You stupid cocksucking..." Trevor held me back, as I was about to break the bottle on the counter.

"Dad," Elizabeth said to me scornfully, "don't make a scene. I'm a big girl now. I'll take care of my debts, alright?"

I did not reply; and they took my silence as agreement, since they set the table up.

I did not even want to watch; it was too hard to bear.

"You can break," Jerry told her.

"Thanks."

I watched only through the corner of my eye, too worried not to look...but, when Elizabeth broke and three balls went straight into the holes, my eyes popped wide open.

"Everyone's entitled to one lucky shot, huh?" She shrugged, as she circled the table with a different debonair, suddenly looking like a great white shark weighing its next meal.

"I guess," Jerry rubbed his forehead, his wide grin slowly withering away.

"Here, have another peek," she hiked her skirt up to her waist, as she bent over the table, slowly weighing her next shot—playing with a determination she did not exhibit prior. And another ball went straight into the hole.

"What the fuck," Jerry mumbled under his breath, wiping the sweat off his forehead with his sleeve.

I was, just like everyone else, dumbfounded; Elizabeth had cleared the table, without even giving Jerry the chance to play.

She approached him quirkily, her palm extended.

"You..." Jerry was at loss for words; for the first time in his life.

"Beat you at your own game," Elizabeth nodded. "You hustle rich, naïve kids; but, with my body, I can hustle the hustlers. You were too busy staring at my tits and ass even to consider the possibility you were being lured into a trap."