Oh Daddy! - Teasing Daddy

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Even at home with my mother, I would crawl into her bed to sleep at night. Meanwhile, at Dad's house, the abuse continued. I'd go to sleep, genuinely fall asleep, and he'd get in bed. I'd wake up and feel his warm skin, his erection against my bottom, his breathing in my ear, the slight scent of Budweiser on his breath. One afternoon, there was a spanking after a sexual encounter and the link between sex and shame became permanent in my brain. I believed that I had let the sex happen, and that it was my fault; I believed that I was the bad one. During my adolescence and all through my 20s I accommodated men sexually as a way of getting attention, as a way to feed my emotional needs: "He loves to have sex with me, that must mean I'm special." It was all-important to me that I be the object of someone's, often several someones', sexual attention. It made me feel whole, complete, energized. I implore you to please seek some help if there is any indication that you may feel that something ain't quite right about this situation. Please. I saw my wife cheating on me, and having sex with her co-worker, in the bed that we have slept in for nearly over fifteen years now.

He opened the door slowly while I waited, hidden behind the glass panel. I knew how much he could see. There was a glass panel that would have protected me from his eyes; but it would have still offered a clear—though blurry—silhouette of my completely naked body. My whole life, I have been haunted by an intersection between shame and pleasure. As a young child, I was hurt again and again and led to believe that it was my fault, and that if only I weren't bad, my dad wouldn't do those things to me. But at the same time, I thought I was special because it was happening. I'd tell myself, "Look how much my daddy loves me," but still I knew it was bad and that I should be ashamed. And sometimes I liked the way it felt, but a lot of times I was scared. And I knew that if I told anyone, he would hurt me. People saw them and sent me recordings from their phones, where it shows them clearly going in and out of seedy travel motels. Recently I read that national radio host Tom Leykis urged his male listeners to "hit on" female victims of incest and sexual abuse: "If you think that a woman's more likely to put out, or more likely to be good in bed because she has a history of abuse, is it wrong to try to find that out and then go for the gold?" At first I cringed in anger that the comment had been made, but then I cringed in shame, knowing that in some ways the comment described me. I had been promiscuous. I had gone out of my way to make sure that my lovers thought I was a talented sexual partner.I made sure he did not have the remote nearby, so he had no choice but to place his hand somewhere on me. He chose my knee.

When I was 12, my girlfriends and I sneaked in to see "An Officer and a Gentleman," a movie that explicitly depicts Debra Winger and Richard Gere having sex. It was the first sexual encounter I had ever seen outside of my father's bed, and it was tremendously erotic for me. Second off, no you did nothing wrong. But that doesn't make this situation okay. Now it's been quite a while since you posted and it may already be too late. But if there is something deep down inside you saying that something is wrong, that's your gut feeling and you should always follow it.I didn't need him anymore. I had developed something of a relationship with a real boy, Jeff, a kid in the new neighborhood. Jeff would beg me to let him kiss and touch me, and I would tell him no. That expression of my power made me feel great. Here someone was sexually focused on me, which made me feel alive. But at the same time, I was able to prove to myself that I wasn't an awful person because I didn't let him do things to me. As an added bonus, I had the opportunity to reject unwanted sexual advances, something I was never able to do with Dad. I don’t know when I went from wanting his approval of my own body, to wanting to see his. Though it was only fair that I got to see him if he got to see me. didn’t seem an option at the time. I kinda felt I’d gone too far, that last week of summer. Yet I still longed for his touch.

When I sat on his lap, his touch inched ever closer, until his warm hand covered the soft skin of my inner thigh and his thumb brushed the edge of my panties. Well, once you became a teenager, you made it quite clear to me that you didn’t like hugs and kisses anymore.” My dad explained. “Though if you’re naughty enough, I might still spank you.” He teased. The next time I did it, I waited again until he was watching something that interested him enough to stay seated even while I crawled into his lap. I've had friends and family telling me that they've seen her and the guy frequenting out the way travel lodges...Eventually, we'd snuggle up in the corner of the couch, in each other's arms, and maybe drift off to sleep. He wrapped his arms around my chest and pulled me closer. “More hugs for my little girl. Got it!” He said. I wonder if he noticed I wasn’t wearing a bra underneath that shirt. I remember sitting on your lap all the time when I was little. I wanted to see if I could still fit.” I explained. Horror Writing | Screenplay Writing | How To Write | Write Books | Read Write | Writing Tips | Writing Tools | Writing Community

I was desperate, and needy. I rarely saw my dad, and when I did he was cold and dispassionate. He didn't treat me the same way, and I wasn't his No. 1 girl. I no longer held his attention, and I was no longer his obsession. I felt that I'd lost his love. Fiction Writing | Blog Writing | Creative Writing | Essay Writing | Letter Writing | Poetry Writing | Technical Writing | Story Writing His other arm he wrapped around me, lower when I was wearing a bra but no t-shirt; but when my bare breasts were hidden behind a bulky shirt, he got high enough so that I could feel his arm brush up against them. My mom and I moved when I turned 13, into a new house where my father had never touched me and would never have the chance. I began sleeping in my own bed immediately, and I gave up my relationship with Mr. Bernard shortly thereafter. It was still warm this time of year, but not as warm as it had been during summer. I would excuse my behavior by telling him that taking off my clothes helped me unburden after a long day at school. I didn’t have to though, he never said anything about my state of undress.I leaned to the side, resting my head against his chest. It wasn’t very comfortable, but it was all I’d be getting for now.