Father and Daughter

"You fucking bitch," Jerry handed her the cold cash with a wide smile.

"Thank you," she counted the bills emphatically.

She came next to me and ordered a round of drinks for the whole bar; everyone cheered.

"Where did you learn..." I tried to ask, after the drinks had arrived, but, she shushed me with a shrug.

"Let's just say," she said coolly, "that I didn't study only literature in college."

"So, is that how you..." Once more, I found myself unable to utter the whole sentence; instead, I just pointed, quite timidly, at her breasts.

"Partly," she nodded, with a knowing smile.

"What else did you..."

"Stop interrogating the girl, man!" Trevor scolded me. "She just hustled 1200 bucks out of Jerry! This is worth celebrating!"

"You're too good, honey," Jerry's voice made my skin crawl; when he put his arm around her shoulders, I simply wanted to break a bottle over his head and leave him for dead. "You should consider making a career out of it; while you still have it."

"I'll think about it," she said and shrugged him off graciously.

"You should," he continued, unfazed. "We can make a lot of dough together, baby."

"Jerry," I told him, sternly, "she said she'll think about it."

"Who's talking to you, you drunk old fuck?" He barked at me.

"I've beaten your ass once," I reminded him. "I wouldn't mind doing it again."

"You got lucky, fool," he condescendingly patted me on the top of my head and my blood reached its boiling point.

"I know of your glass jaw, man," I gently flicked my fingers on his jaw. "The reason you never made it in boxing, isn't it? You thought you'd be big, everyone thought you'd be big, but...one punch, lights out, and...you ended up here, playing pool with college kids just to make ends meet."

"You really want to fight, huh? Let me remind you, I still train; while all the training you do is lifting these beer bottles and stuffing them down your gut. Though, maybe, having some sense punched into your shriveled liver is what you really need."

"Will you both shut the fuck up?!" Elizabeth erupted. "No one's fighting anyone! You," she pointed her stiff finger at Jerry, "stop being a bully to compensate for whatever manhood problems you have. And you," it was my turn to be reprimanded, "stop acting like a protective father. I can win my own fights, thank you very much."

"I wasn't..." I began, but, her fiery glance had me shut my mouth and focus solely on my bourbon.

"So," she addressed Jerry, whose smirk appeared permanently painted on his face, "how's the game around here?"

"Decent," he responded; they were standing right next to me, talking as if I did not even exist. I bit my lips tight, when he thrust his hand under her skirt, cupping her ass and pulling her closer to him. "Usually on weekends we get college kids, looking for...fun."

"Sounds good," she said. "I thought so," she then smirked, as she grabbed his crotch. "All that bravado of yours is to hide your inadequate size, huh?"

"Watch it, bitch," he said, his smile suddenly turning into a most atrocious grimace.

"Don't worry," she shrugged, "I won't tell anybody. Besides, I want you only to be my hustling partner, not a sexual partner."

"You'd be surprised what..."

"I don't give a damn," she cut him off coldly. "I do like my dicks like my wallet; fat."

"Your daughter," he addressed me, "is one fucked-up woman, man. I guess, it's true what they say about the apple not falling far from the tree."

I looked up at him and, judging by the sudden change in his expression, he probably discerned my homicidal mood.

"All right," he took two steps back, his hands raised in the air in surrender, "I'll return to my corner, to wait for..."

"Well, girl," Trevor told Elizabeth, "you definitely have bigger balls than most in here."

"Thanks," she winked at him, then rested her arm on my shoulder.

And as she leaned on me, I just couldn't stop myself from stealing a brief peek at her breasts, adamantly refusing to remain concealed in her tight shirt.

* * * * *

"You haven't been around for a while," Gina said to me reproachfully. She crossed her legs high, her short dress was lifted even higher and for a moment my eyes just wouldn't be removed from her firm thighs.

"I've been...busy," I finally said, when she pinched me on the arm and thusly forced me to look up in her eyes.

"Well," she frowned, "you've certainly missed our newest dancer. A perky young thing...she's driving them all nuts! I mean, I'm fairly sure there are a couple of guys ready to sell a kidney for a night with her!"

"That good, huh?" I asked, completely unimpressed and uninterested.

"What the hell's wrong with you?" She insisted, her voice suddenly turning mellower.

"Nothing, really. I...my daughter's been living with me for the past couple of months, and...it's taxing. That's all."

"Driving each other crazy, huh?" She smiled beautifully.

"Yeah, pretty much," I let out a heavy sigh. "She's often downstairs at the bar," I pointed at the window with a half-limp arm, "hustling with that fucker, Jerry. And I don't know what else she's doing; she's often gone in the nights, coming home early in the morning, stumbling from exhaustion, or drugs, and..."

"Like father like daughter, huh?"

"I was never a hustler!" I protested.

"You kind of are, baby," she blew a wet kiss on my cheek. "These...articles you write? You are kind of ripping them off, you know. You just pretend to know the things you write about."

"They still publish them, though—some of them, anyway. And they keep sending checks. So..."

"Jerry's making dough too, hun. That doesn't make him legitimate, or whatever."

"Right," I groaned and reached for the bourbon bottle standing half-empty on the table; I swilled down a good portion, then passed it to Gina.

"So," she said, her eyes still narrow from the warm, strong bourbon, "what's really troubling you?"

"I don't know," I shrugged. There was never a point in arguing with Gina—in the three years we had been seeing each other, she'd known me better than my ex-wife ever had. "Maybe it's seeing that Elizabeth, my daughter, is way too similar to me. You know?"

"Well, all parents hope their children fare better than themselves."

"Yeah; it's a damn shame that that almost never happens..." I grabbed the bottle out of her grip and almost reached the bottom in one gulp.

"Take it easy, big boy," she palmed the bottle's neck. "That's not apple juice."

"No shit," I cleared my throat loudly. "It's the only thing that still makes some sense, you know?"

"You might have to consider getting your act all cleaned up. If your daughter sees you like this every day, it's no wonder she does what she does."

"Says the woman, with whom I smoked rock for a year; do you remember how we met? And where?"

"Yes," she said, dryly. "But, I don't have a daughter living with me."

"Well," I rebuked, "when my ex divorced me and took off with her rich new boyfriend, I wasn't exactly expecting to see my kids again."

"That's not...that doesn't say anything!"

"Perhaps," I agreed. "Anyway, it's too late for me to change now."

"Always the optimist, huh?"

"Yeah." I opened a small metal box standing inconspicuously on the coffee table and procured a fat joint out of it. "Want a hit? It'll take the edge off."

"You keep that around? With your daughter in here?"

"She's an adult," I said calmly. "Besides, I have a feeling she's tried way worse shit than this little innocent beauty."

"How do you know?" She asked in a judgmental voice, though she did eagerly accept the blunt, when I handed it to her.

I laughed, when she burst into a violent cough, bending over in half; her humongous, silicone breasts almost burst out of her strapless dress and, despite the alcohol already running through my veins, I felt a soft tingling down south.

"That thing's good," she said, amid her coughing.

"The one positive thing about Jerry," I nodded, then had a good hit.

"So," she sniffled, "will I get to meet your daughter?"

"Maybe, one day," I shrugged. "I've no idea when she's going to come home. I guess she's too busy hustling rich kids right now."

"Pool, huh?" She smiled.

"Yeah," I sighed; suddenly, she was on me, her luscious lips pressed against mine. I lowered her dress under her breasts and took them in my hands, feeling their extreme sturdiness.

"I've always loved your cock," she whispered in my ear; she had taken my soft prick in her palm, stroking it meticulously.

My cock has been my one good quality; at nine inches, I've often used it to humiliate "macho" assholes in bars, ever since I was a teenager. Of course, I've also been in trouble with the law a few times, for flashing it during heavy stupors.

As a younger man, and aspiring "writer", I'd go to watering holes, drinking till I was petrified; and then, in my semi-blackout state, I'd try to walk back home. But, I'd get the idea that any woman would simply love to sleep with me, simply for my having such a big and, as I've been told, beautiful tool.

Of course, that only works in porn; and while I have gotten a few blowjobs this way, from women just as drunk as I, I've also been reported to the cops. I got away with some fines, warnings...thankfully, I never flashed an underage girl, or anyone too vindictive, so, I've evaded, so far, being labeled as a sexual predator.

Though, to be fair, I doubt many people in my neighborhood would give a shit, if I had to introduce myself to them as a convicted sex offender; most likely, they'd just ignore me, just like they do now.

Gina lowered my pants and got down to her knees; her big, bright, blue eyes were staring dead into mine, while she took the sensitive head of my prick in her mouth, her warm tongue softly licking it.

I still had the joint between my fingers and was taking short hits, already too hazed properly to enjoy the moment; nevertheless, my hydraulics made me proud and I got lightheaded—more than I already was.

"It's astounding," Gina articulated my very thought, "how you can get it up, even when drunk and stoned."

"It's a god-given gift, baby," I told her in a low whisper.

She attacked my cock once more, with more vivacity and passion; her soft, full lips wrapped tight around the shaft, as she bobbed on it. A tickling sensation overwhelmed me, when she massaged my swollen balls—that had turned a light shade of blue.

We both knew I wouldn't come—with half a bottle of bourbon in my bloodstream it was a wonder I got it up—but, that did not stop Gina from burying my shaft between her breasts; instantly, a special kind of warmth engulfed me as she bounced her torso up and down, letting my prick rub against the smooth, soft skin of her tits, while her tongue continued to wet the tip of my cock.

"Oh, fuck!" I heard the exasperated voice of my daughter; I quickly sat up, rigidly. However, Gina seemed undaunted, as she kept my dick between her breasts and only turned around to look at the newcomer.

"My God!" Gina exclaimed with a chuckle. "Moonshine?"

"I'm sorry, what?" I rubbed my forehead, desperate somehow to clear up my hazy mind. "You know each other? How..."

"Fuck," Gina spat.

Then, she leaped back and fixed her dress; thus giving me the chance finally to pull my pants up too. I caught a brief glimpse of Elizabeth steadily eyeballing my crotch, with a glint brightening up her hazel eyes, which resulted in my body heat to increase exponentially.

I drank long from the bottle, until I reached the bottom, somehow trying to eradicate the scarlet color I was certain my face sported.

"How do you two know each other?" I asked in a trembling voice, hiding the joint under my palm.

"It's nothing, really, I..." Gina tried to explain, but, her mannerism told me everything I needed to know.

"The perky young thing you were talking about, huh?" I frowned.

"Dad, I just...I'm making good money; besides, there aren't that many people at the bar," Elizabeth tried to explain.

"It's alright," I said; having given up, I relit the joint and dragged a long, nice puff.

"Hun," Gina said, her voice all too shaky and rusty, "are you okay?"

"Fucking dandy," I laughed—probably rather maniacally, judging by the terrified look they both gave me. "What?" I lifted my shoulders, still smoking my joint.

"I think," Gina spoke to Elizabeth, "we should better leave him alone for a while."

"Yeah," Elizabeth agreed, still eyeing me curiously. "Is he alright?"

"Yes," I overheard Gina's low whisper. "He just might be getting a bit...paranoid, from the booze and the dope. Nothing to worry about; he'll sleep it off and...I think he'll be okay."

They closed the door behind them and I was all alone; I stumbled about, searching for a bottle. And found a cheap brand of vodka. Better than nothing, I thought and opened it, swilling it down thirstily.

Frantically, I searched the wardrobe of my former bedroom; at first, I came close to tearing it down with my bare hands, because I could not find what I so desperate longed for. Finally, though, I discovered the shoebox, within which hid another small metal box.

I returned to the couch with it and formed four long lines of blow on the dusty table; it burned my nostrils and my head began to throb. Was it the blow, or, the months-old dust?

I didn't really care; I felt better, more clearheaded. And then, I realized that my daughter was working at the strip joint in the corner, dancing topless for lustful, hungry fucks. The same strip joint wherein I spent most of the first year of my divorce—where I met Gina, got introduced to rock, and realized I was highly content with life as a drunkard and failed wordsmith.

Someone knocked on my door and I went to answer it butt naked; in my stoned condition, I had decided I'd welcome my daughter back home with my cock dangling between my legs, just to see her reaction.

"Jesus, man," Peter shoved me aside and stepped inside, "put some clothes on!"

"What do you want?" I asked him angrily.

"Liz and Gina came over," he explained, with a sigh of relief escaping his mouth when I slithered into my sweatpants, "and told me you were getting all too stoned and paranoid.

"Came to check up on you."

"Like the drug expert that you are?"

"Yeah," he said, stone-cold. "Look, man, I..." He stopped, as he examined my coffee table. "Well, it looks like you were having a one-man party, huh?"

"Just trying to forget my daughter's a fucking stripper."

"It's not that bad, man," Peter shrugged. "It could have been way worse."

"Like...if she was a whore?"

"She's smart, man. She has a Bachelor degree that's practically useless in the job market. She's using her assets to earn a living most folks her age don't dare dream of nowadays."

"You're actually trying to rationalize it, aren't you? Trying to convince me to be happy about it?"

"No, I'm not," he retorted coldly. "All I'm saying, is that you should try to look at it from a different perspective. Hell, man, Gina's a stripper too and you've been dating, on and off, for three fucking years."

"She's not my daughter!"

"She's someone's daughter!"

"So fucking what?"

"So...I don't know. The fact of the matter is, just like Gina, Liz chose to do it. She wasn't forced into it. She just went to Dave and asked for a fucking job. And he was more than happy to give her one; Hell, he'd been dying for new blood for years."

"And he had to hire my daughter?"

"He'd have hired someone's daughter anyway!" Peter raised his voice. "Damn it, man! Look around you! You think this is a place, where someone can find a decent, respectable job?

"You've been here for some time now, man. If you want something better for Liz, why did you let her move in with you?"

"Should I have just...told her to go live off in the streets?"

"Yeah," he said, completely unemotionally. "She's an adult; she should try to make a living for herself. And she's doing it. She'd probably have ended dancing in a joint in any other town, too.

"Just be content it's here, where you know people and are in position to help her, if the need arises."

"I wonder if you'd say the same things, if it was your daughter in that position."

"Maybe not," he shrugged. "Maybe, I'd react just like you do. But, I don't have children; besides, we've both made choices that wouldn't make our parents proud, right?

"You think your parents would be glad, if they were to see you now? What you've done, what you haven't accomplished?"

"I don't know; and, it's not relevant right now, man!" I tried to protest—meanwhile, I mentally returned to my childhood. I recalled the dreams I once had, the great aspirations. The teacher that encouraged me to continue writing (though, in hindsight, she was simply trying not to crash my dreams that early on in my life), my parents, who did their best to provide me with all the tools to make it, my friends, with whom we had good, clean fun...

And, all of a sudden, here I was, talking to a junkie bartender, myself a barfly, my daughter dancing in a dirty strip-joint; and the worst of it all was that the junkie bartender had poems published in The New Yorker. In spite of his lousy job and bad habits, he had accomplished more in his life than I ever could dream of.

Swarmed with jealousy over the long-haired man sitting pompously in front of me, lecturing me on the values of life and trying to get me to accept my daughter's new occupation, my blood rushed through my veins and I clenched my fists tight.

"Look, man," Peter said in a cold, monotonous voice, "don't do anything stupid, alright?"

"You're the one barged into my home," I started screaming at him, "to lecture me about life! About how to deal with my daughter!"

"All I did," he said, his blatant serenity only further infuriating me, "was try and talk some sense into you, man. I guess, I'll just be going; it's your life after all, your daughter. Why should I give a fuck?"

I jumped him; I don't know why. I was just too overwhelmed with jealousy, anger, despair. Unfortunately, for me, Peter had spent most of his adult life in skid row dealing with pushers, dealers, junkies, and criminals; moreover, he was a couple of decades younger than me. The biggest part of my adult life had been spent in a lovely suburban house, with almost all expenses being covered by my wife's salary.

Hence, he blocked my punch with tremendous ease, which instantly put me on notice; he buried his knee to my stomach and, when I doubled up on the floor heaving, I was dead certain I was about to vomit out my intestines.

"I'm sorry, man," he knelt beside me, softly patting me on the back. "Breathe deeply, that's it. I told you not to do anything stupid."

"Fuck you!" I lifted my head, my whole body on fire, and threw a headbutt his way; I was too weak, though, thus it only grazed him.

A punch landed right on my nose, sending me down on my back; curled up in an embryonic position, holding both my head and stomach, my legs faintly flapping on the floor, I desperately tried to withhold the brewing tears.

I got up, my mouth flooded with the heavy taste of copper, and tried to stare a hole through Peter's perfectly calm face.

"Dude," he said, rubbing the bridge of his nose, "sit the fuck down, all right? There's absolutely no need to..."

I speared him on the floor; at least, I did my best to do that. But, in the painful condition I was in, I tripped and simply managed to cause him to stumble back. At that very moment, I had hoped I'd be able to pin him down, wanted nothing more than to beat him into a bloody pulp. If given the chance, I might even have thrown him out of the window.