The Christmas in July Luau

"Oh-kay," he said. He said it in a sing-song voice. He perceived that he was talking to a mental patient now, and the nice men in white coats needed to come by please and help this poor person.

He stood up off the couch, then marched into the house like a robot. I was left there. When he didn't come back, I went in to find him. He was sitting on a stool at the kitchen bar, facing into the kitchen and facing so he could see me come through the door. In front of him was the wine glass—full—and a smaller glass with a thin layer of something brownish. Whiskey, I guessed.

"Hey. Coll. Do you want to explain to me why you just said what you said? Do I need to call the hospital?"

"No, Dad, I'm fine. I'm totally fine, and I'm not even drunk."

He downed the whiskey. He was holding his phone, like he very much wanted to use it.

"I just can't understand why you would say that."

"I just... want to. I want to let you fuh—"

"No!" he shouted, then his voice returned to normal. "Don't say it again. Do you think... My god, Colleen, do you think I could ever actually do that? Do you think I ever would do that?"

"I want to find out. I... have to find out."

"Find out what? If I'm a total piece of shit?"

He stared at me, and I kept my face blank and calm.

"You're sick," he said.

He was hurt. He looked through his phone.

"I'm sorry, Dad."

"You're sick, honey, and I didn't know." He closed his eyes. "I couldn't know. If you're not joking about this, which I don't understand why in God's name you would joke about this, we need to get you some help. I'm so sorry you've been off by yourself for so long. I... I..."

I began to get the distinct feeling that this was all going to blow up in my face. I was going to have to see a psychologist, or something like that. Part of me began to prepare for eventually apologizing to him, and us dealing with it as a family in therapy. Something final like that. Misery.

I had something to say first, though.

"Dad," I said. "Did you ever just get something in your head, something completely out of the question, and then gradually, eventually, at some point, you're just... used to it?"

"Like what?"

Oh god. Oh god. Oh god.

"Like jerking off to pictures of me in bikinis in the middle of the night?"

I realized as soon as it came out of my mouth that it sounded angry. I wasn't angry.

"Oh, okay," he said. His entire temperament shifted. "This is because—"

"No, Dad, no, wait, I meant that—"

"This is because I accidentally liked that picture of you that night. Okay."

He was quiet, staring out into the kitchen.

"I get it," he said. "You saw that, huh? Christ. I was just lonely, kid. It was an accident. My god, you didn't have to go through all this to ask me about that. You were angry. I get it."

"Dad, I wasn't angry. I was turned on." Well, I hadn't been then. That was a half-lie.

"No you weren't."

"I want to let you fuck me."

He just sat there looking at me, bewildered. I wished it didn't have to be this way. I stayed calm, and I tried to leave the impression on my face that I both understood how he felt but also that I knew I was going to win. Whatever that looked like.

"I think you should leave, Coll. I have to think about what we're going to do with this. I just... don't even know what you're talking about."

"Dad. You weren't jerking off to it? Look me in the face and tell me. I want you to have jerked off to it."

"Please, Coll. Come on. Please. Just go back to Aunt Mo's."

"Tell me."

He just looked down, at my stomach but not really at anything. Into the void. Into the void I had opened up and showed him. I hadn't really known if he had jerked off to it, if that fucking image had been accurate, but now I was leaning towards yes. He couldn't deny it. He was too good of a person.

"Dad, I'm telling you, with all the sincerity in my heart, I am standing here with an outfit I picked out just for you to look at, in fishnets, with no panties, looking as hot as I can, because I haven't been able to stop thinking about a father fucking his daughter since last summer—for whatever reason (uhh, yeah)—and I decided to tell you that I want to let you fuck me. I'm 100% serious, and I've thought it through for months now."

A few days, actually. But maybe somewhere secret I didn't admit to myself, yes—months.

"Why?"

"Because I have to see what it's like for your dad to fuck you, and unfortunately, Dad, you're my only dad."

He sucked his bottom lip into his mouth and thought for a moment, then spoke.

"Something like that would destroy us, kid."

"I don't want to be called a kid. I want to let you fuck me."

He began to shake his head. I pressed on.

"I know you watch father-daughter porn. I know you think about it. I want you to have that."

He took a gulp of wine, set the glass down, got off the stool and came around to stand in front of me with his arms crossed.

"Now what are you talking about?"

"Dad, the whole world watches incest porn. You're a guy. You must watch father-daughter porn."

"You looked through my stuff."

"I went on your laptop to—"

"You invaded my privacy. So let me get this straight—"

He was pissed. I remained calm. I had seen this all coming. Pull through, Coll.

"You think you catch me red-handed," he said, laughing bitterly, "looking at your Instagram, and then you come over here and spy on me? And then you decide to say... whatever it fucking... you... it's—"

"I just... had to see if you could take it."

"Take what?" he yelled.

"My desire."

"Get out," he said, and he turned away from me, grabbed his wine and the wine bottle, and marched upstairs. There had been one other thing I wanted to tell him, but I felt that—even after all I'd said—that this one other thing would have been too much. He would have been crushed with shame.

As he ascended, before he was out of sight, I called to him. A machine. Possessed and straight from Hell.

"Dad, I'm wearing a butt plug for you. Right now."

He stopped and just stared down at the steps. I spoke again.

"I just want to let you—"

"Yeah! I got it!" he screamed.

He continued up the steps, and a door slammed. It was over.

If I had any emotions left at that moment, their final drip of juice was squeezed out with that door slamming. I just stood there for a few minutes. Had it really happened? Had I really just done that? For him, I knew it was surreal, but for me it was, too. I had just asked my father to do the thing fathers are not supposed to do, the one thing they are not supposed to think about doing. All because I had to know. I couldn't stop wiggling the fucking tooth.

I left.

*****

Part 5: Christmas in July

A week went by.

The end of June approached, and July loomed. I had clients, but I didn't take as many as I usually did. I didn't think I was as fun anymore. I avoided Keith, which I got punished for later as you can probably guess. I told my Jules that I would hang out with him, for free, but I was shut down for business temporarily—family stuff. He understood. Oh Jules.

I hung out with the girls and partied, just girls drinking and having dance parties and making Ukrainian food in a big empty house. No sex. No stress. No guys. I even laughed my head off a few times, can you believe that? It was so helpful, and I love them all so much. I wish I could talk to all of them again in person. Those fucking characters, man.

My dad didn't communicate with me at all. I didn't communicate with him. I wanted to let him process it. I was down, though, and I had started to feel pangs of regret. An inkling of horror seeped out of my steeled self-assurance. My typically-Lamborghini-speed sex drive slowed down.

What had I done?

I got a text from him on Saturday night, sometime past midnight. I was just finishing up with Will.

'Coming by Wednesday. Thought about it. Need to see you.'

Well, as if by the power of a Greek goddess, I swear you could hear my pussy rev to life with mystical ampules. I tossed my phone onto the floor and everything was good and happy days were here again. I stayed with Will for another half hour just for free, then called Jules frantic with hope and drove to his place to give him some good stuff. Everything changed.

My dad was going to fuck me. He was going to show me.

I remember that night. God. With ten fucking words from Dad, I had translated his private Rosetta stone. I knew exactly what he had decided. I was full of myself.

He knew that on Wednesdays after dinner, my Aunt and Uncle went back to their regular house to do some stuff, and they came back on Thursday nights real late. I remembered him talking to them about it during his stay with us at the start of the summer.

He knew we would be alone.

The 3rd of July was filled with sex and fun, and on the 4th of July me and all of the girls—every one of them—had a roof deck party at one of the girls' houses where she boarded, and we carried on and watched a fireworks show that Cape May put on over at the tip of the island. The pyrotechnics cracked over top of our little world and we rocked and danced and were sisters. I flung my hands up and screamed.

That sky was me. I felt so full of hope and power, ready to explode with delight and euphoria, and baby I was a firework, and I was gonna make'em go 'oh, oh, oh.'

It came.

Wednesday, July 5th, 2017.

When he drove up, I was waiting for him in just a light blue romper. The butt plug was in again. That was it. No underwear on and nothing on my feet. I sat on the railing of the porch, and he came up the steps.

My father had shaved his face.

He was holding a plastic disposable shopping bag in one hand, and his phone in the other. The look on his face told me all their was to tell. He had not come here to fuck me. He had come here concerned, and probably with some plans for what to do with my sordid mental state.

"Hey," I said.

"Let's go inside," he said.

He led me inside, and we sat down in the wide living room. I sat on a single comfy chair, and he sat on the edge of the couch, caddy-corner to me. He plunked the bag down on the coffee table, and took out some fucking pamphlets. Well, looks like I had failed. Pamphlet time.

He talked to me about them, about some of the places they described, and tried to convince me that I needed help. I let him go on and on, just glancing at stuff and nodding. Then it was my turn.

"Look. Dad. Thank you so much for all this. Really."

"I just want to help."

"Right now, let me ask you—do I seem crazy to you?"

"Coll, you—"

"Dad, look at me." He looked into my eyes. "Nothing happened to me. I just have Mom's thing. I get it from Mom."

"What do you... you mean the obsession. The obsession thing."

"Yeah."

"That's not good enough for me."

"Dad—Yosemite. Fucking Yosemite, Dad."

"Yeah. I remember."

That's all I had to say. He knew what I was talking about. She had watched some TV movie with a scene with people standing at the tiny edge of a giant cliff. She had been afraid of heights, but that scene, and what the characters saw, and how they reacted, had grabbed her. She found out that it had been filmed in Yosemite National Park. Eventually, she got us all to go out there, to Yosemite—this was a year before she was diagnosed—and go to that very cliff, and look off it just like in the movie. If you've ever been to Yosemite, you might be able to imagine what it looked like.

"Dad, before we keep talking... about these places, can I smoke some weed? Just a little bit. It helps me calm down. It'll help with these decisions."

"Colleen, hold on a minute."

God this sucked, but then he threw a curveball at me.

"Between the two of us, who exactly was it that lived in Southern California during their 20s?"

I laughed. He was trying so hard to restore normalcy.

"Sure, yeah, smoke away," he said. "You know my feeling about that. Shit, buddy."

"Can you come up with me?" I said. "We smoke in the upstairs TV room. Aunt Mo and Uncle Mike put in an exhaust fan."

"I know where they smoke." He laughed again. Back to normal. Yay for us.

We ascended the stairs, and went into the room. It was a smaller living room, and I used it to smoke weed now and then, text my army of badass chicks, and watch TV and stuff.

I got my Aunt and Uncle's gear out and I packed a bowl, turned on the fan, and smoked a few puffs.

"Hey. Let me see what your Aunt Mo is getting into these days," my dad said.

Oh.

He took the bowl, and I think he forgot that he didn't smoke much weed anymore, since he had been working out a lot and trying to be healthy. He smoked the rest of that bowl, talked to me about the one pamphlet place he really thought was progressive, then began packing again. He took a few puffs of that one, and I could see it in his eyes.

My dad was stoned, stoned, stoned.

"Dad?"

"Yes. I am... your dad." He giggled, and it trailed off.

"You stopped talking in the middle of a sentence."

"Uh-huh. Well, I was just thinking... about how you had so much... courage."

He turned his head slowly and looked at my tits. No. No way. Really?

"I just want you to be happy," he said. His words were fuzzed together, and I knew how stoned he was. He just looked like it. Slow motion.

I went to the bathroom and looked into the mirror at myself. What I was about to do was highly, highly problematic, but it was a gamble. I was convinced he wanted to fuck me, deep down in his animal brain just like that father I had watched a summer ago. I could taste it. I was horrible.

I walked back into the room, and Dad was chugging water—cottonmouth.

"Hey," he said. "What were we talking about? Oh yeah, this place." He smiled like an idiot and held up the pamphlet.

"Dad, let me come sit next to you."

"Okay," he said.

I sat next to him for a minute, and then I leaned over his lap and put my arm around his head to place it on the back of the couch. I brought my hips up and stepped a leg over his lap to straddle him. I sank down into his lap, and in a matter of seconds, his dick was hard.

"Hey," he said.

"Hi Dad." I smiled. "Y'know, a guy who didn't want to fuck his daughter probably wouldn't get a hard cock when he was close to her."

"It's the weed, ahhh, hhhoney."

"You weren't smoking weed, Dad, when I laid back onto you two weeks ago."

He shrugged. My dad. High as a kite.

That night a week ago, as I had laid back into him, I briefly felt his hard-on before he shifted around so I wouldn't be laying on it. I swear, guys can do magical disappearing shit with their dicks sometimes. It was what I hadn't been able to tell him later that night, the thing that would have been too crushing, too embarassing.

I helped him take his shirt off. He was in stoned land, but at the same time I suddenly noticed his gaze. He was looking at my body. I hoped he wasn't really that stoned. He cooperated, and I threw his shirt on the floor.

"Dad, I'm going to get naked, okay?"

"Sure," he said. Sure, do whatever.

I stood up off of his lap, then moved the big lamp in the room to the floor. It got darker in the rest of the room from the light shining mostly on the carpet.

He watched me. My dad watched me, waiting for me to get naked.

I flicked the shoulder straps of my romper to the side, and the romper just dropped off. There I was. His naked daughter.

"I don't... wanna do this," he said.

But he did. He stared at my pussy. He hadn't seen it since I was a very little girl. Right after he said what he said, he undid the button on his jeans, and he began to slide them off.

I was going to fuck my dad.

He kicked his shoes off, then slid his jeans down to his knees and let them drop down to the floor.

My dad's cock jumped up after clearing the jeans, and I just could not believe it. I bit my lip. I trembled. My dad's cock was humongous, and it was very, very pretty. I had never seen it before, as far as I could remember. It amazed me that it could get that hard while he was clearly so high.

"Please, Colleen. Don't," he said. He reached out and took my hand, which I gladly gave him, and he guided me down to sit on one of his legs.

"Please," he said. He pulled me close to him, and he kissed me very tenderly on the lips. I pulled back and looked at him. He met my eyes. I almost had that tooth wiggled out of the gumline. I spoke very clearly as he stared at me.

"Dad, I want to let you fuck me."

He tenderly moved his hands around on my skin, and tenderly touched my breasts. He touched my legs tenderly, and then moved his hand softly to my lower stomach. He just put his hand on it and kept it there. It was very nice and loving. It was very tender and shit.

See, here's the thing. I had fucked up. That's not what I wanted. I didn't want to fall in fucking love with my goddamn dad, I wanted him to do to me what that father did to that girl. He was the only fucking person who could do that to me.

I'll spare the rest of the details of our little session. It lasted about 5 more minutes, and then he passed out. I hadn't even touched his dick, and he hadn't even really touched anything of mine.

I was disappointed, and I was pissed off at myself. I should have waited. My heart fluttered and I felt like I had ruined something so crucial for just nothing. What I wanted, what I was determined to get but what I couldn't find, simply wasn't there.

He fell asleep on that couch, and I covered him with a thin blanket. When I woke up the next morning, he and all his things were gone.

I freaked. I called him a few times, and he didn't pick up. I texted him in vain. I canceled all of my clients, promising better things, and hopped in my car to drive to Ocean City. He wasn't there.

As I was leaving Ocean City on the bridge, he texted me.

'Back in Mahwah. Just so you know.'

So guess what? I drove home. I drove to Mahwah. I got there four and half hours later, around 5:00, hitting some traffic and making a few pit stops along the way. When I got to Mahwah, I just drove around the old neighborhood listening to music and drumming up willpower. I parked next to a lake and thought about what my next step could possibly be.

I stopped in a convenience store and bought a chicken salad wrap and some fruit, and ate on a picnic table in the park next door. I felt sick. I could only eat the fruit.

What was he going to say? What was he going to do? I was glad I had drove, even though the decision had been an extremely impulsive, thoughtless one. Now, I could at least try to face him and get whatever answers were coming to me.

At 7:00, I pulled up down the street from the house and parked. I approached the house carefully. His car was in the driveway. I had my backpack with hardly anything in it. I went through the gate and around back, and let myself in the sliding glass door.

There he was, in the back den. He sat in the corner, in the recliner, with his feet up and his hands behind his head. The TV wasn't on. The lights weren't on. The late sun shown through all the windows into the shadows. My dad's eyes were closed, and he didn't open them when I came into the house.

"Dad," I said.

He didn't move. I put my bookbag down and went over to sit next to him.

"I didn't want to do that," he said. His eyes were still closed. "That was wrong."

"Dad," I said. I just kept hammering away at this poor man. "I want to let you fuck me."

"I'm sorry, Coll, but it's not going to happen. I'm sorry. I don't—I'm sorry."

Last ditch. I got up and picked up my bag, then walked deeper into the house. If this didn't work, I'd leave, and I would accept things. I thought there was a chance. Up the stairs I went.