AUTHOR'S NOTE: Each of the chapters here is a story that I previously published. I've compiled and re-edited them into a single story to improve the experience of reading the entire saga, but you can find each chapter as an individual installment elsewhere on this site if you prefer.
Hugs,
Lola
***
Chapter 1: Like Father, Like Daughter
To a stranger on the internet, this may read like a confession, but anyone who knows me well and has observed my behavior up close will recognize it as a statement as blatantly obvious as "my eyes are brown" or "my hair is black."
I have an irresistible weakness for arrogant, aggressive men.
Please do not confuse this with an attraction to something as mundane as confidence. Every girl likes a man with confidence. This is not the same thing.
The men I sleep with go far beyond mere confidence. They approach me with the presumption that they are going to fuck me, believing that the only uncertainty is when and where they will claim me. These men act as if they are entitled to touch my body in any manner they see fit. Confidence alone doesn't come close to describing the privilege they exude in expecting me to submit myself to any and all of their desires.
There is nothing more intoxicating than this kind of arrogance in the right hands.
Rest assured, however, that it takes a very specific type of man to pull this off. They aren't all identical clones, but if I had to describe a type, the men that claim me tend to be older and highly successful, with the wealth and status to cushion their egos against any possible bruise. To be clear, I'm not a gold-digger that goes after wealthy men with the hopes of reeling on in and landing myself an easy life of luxury. There are plenty of wealthy older men out there that lack the dominant streak that dissolves my self-control. I have no problem resisting these men, as their advances do nothing for me. But there is no sense in denying that many of the men that have fucked me do possess these characteristics.
And, since I'm speaking frankly, it would be conspicuous to overlook the fact that almost all of them have another trait in common: they tend to be white, just like my Dad.
Let me say for the record that my father never touched me in a sexual way. Not once, not ever. To the contrary, my Dad was fiercely protective of me. In hindsight, I have come to believe that his vigilance was borne of intimate, first-hand knowledge of the predatory men who walk among us. Men just like him. I mentioned my Dad not just because he is white, but because, at a basic level, this story is about a lack of self-control. My father had no self-control in the situations where it mattered most, and this is a trait that he seems to have passed down to me.
As I said in the beginning, some of the people in my life are well aware of how I interact with men. My father managed to keep his lack of self-control a secret for years, but mine was revealed early, and it--like my body--has since been laid bare many times over. However, few of the people in my life know why I behave this way, something that even I myself have only lately come to understand. If you read my story, you may begin to understand it, too.
...
From birth until just after I turned 18, I lived in a university town on the California coast. My Dad was a professor in the political science department and a specialist in the field of international relations. At 29, he was the youngest person in the history of the department to receive a tenure-track position. The following year, he was invited to present his work at a conference in Seoul, which happened to be organized by a young female graduate student with long black hair, straight white teeth, and a curiosity towards American men. Within a year, they were married, and my Mom moved to California to be with him.
My Mom landed a job at the same university as my Dad, albeit as a program coordinator rather than a faculty member. This job suited her well, and she was good at it, but it surely would've been better if it had been at a different university. Despite her competence, my Mom always feared that people assumed she had only gotten the job because of her hotshot husband, and as proud as she was of my Dad's accomplishments, I think it hurt her to be so overshadowed. When my Mom got pregnant with me, she was 27 and my Dad was 33. He was already on the fast track to be the next chair of his department. It wasn't even a question of who would take time off to raise me.
Although my Mom was my primary caregiver by almost any standard, throughout my childhood, my relationship with her was never as close as it was with my Dad. My Mom is Korean, and while her English is excellent, she's never felt truly at home in the US. Even after having raised two children here, she still hasn't fully adjusted to American life.
But I was born in the US, and despite being half-Korean, I grew up thinking of myself primarily as an American girl. When I was younger, it was easy to see myself this way, because my skin tone is lighter than most Asian girls, although it tans to a honeyed, golden color and never burns. I have dark, almond-shaped eyes, just like my Mom, but unlike her, I was born with a double-eyelid that most Asian girls only acquire through surgery. My long, wavy hair is black, but it softens to the color of coffee during the summertime. I have Asian features, but growing up in California, I never had a problem fitting in.
As I got older, however, and as my body matured, my mixed parentage manifested itself in other ways that have deeply influenced my life and the stories I'm about to tell.
For one thing, I'm almost 5'9, which makes me taller than most Asian girls. This proved to be an asset for me on the tennis court, where I excelled from a rather young age. But as I grew into my body, my height wasn't the only thing that set me apart from other Asian girls. By the time I was 18-years-old, I was wearing a 34D bra, meaning that my natural curves are excessively generous by Asian girl standards. This is a fact that many men--and white men, in particular--have often remarked on (and salivated over), as you will soon see.
It's also a fact that the men who pursue me--and again, white men in particular--almost uniformly prefer to think of me as Asian when it comes to sex. Call it a fetish, or yellow fever, or whatever you want to call it, but the pattern is undeniable. I may be half-white, but that's usually not the half they want to fuck. Over time, I've learned to accept this fact, and sometimes I've embraced it, or even used it to my advantage.
But I'm getting ahead of myself.
Perhaps because I felt so American growing up, it made it easier for me to get close to my Dad. It also didn't hurt that my Dad had the status of a local celebrity in our university town. As a little girl, I used to love walking through campus with him, watching the way people reacted to us. Faculty and staff greeted us warmly, but it was nothing compared to the worship he received from his adoring, mostly female students.
"Hiiii, Professor Andrews," they would squeal as we walked by. "Oh my god, is that Lola?"
"She's so cute, Professor! She takes after you."
"Lola, you're getting so big! Are you going to be a freshman here in the fall?"
Imagine being a 7-year-old girl and having college girls fawn all over you. Do you have any idea what that feels like? I loved the attention. Unfortunately, so did my father.
I know it isn't healthy, but when I look back on what happened, I still feel pangs of guilt. I said before that my father never tried to fuck me, but that doesn't mean he didn't use me for sex.
Every Sunday, when other dads were watching football, we would go on daddy-daughter dates. I looked forward to these all week. The park, the museum, the movies, the zoo, we went all over. And then, as our last stop before coming home for dinner, we would stop by the diner near campus for ice cream sundaes.
"Life needs variety, Lola," he would say with a smile as we settled into our favorite booth, "And that's why, on Sundays, dessert comes before dinner."
Because the diner was near campus, most of the wait staff and customers were students, and so each week we received a hero's welcome. I must've eaten a thousand free sundaes there over the years, though I'm quite certain my Dad paid for all them and then some in the tips he gave. Of course, as we found out years later, he wasn't just paying for ice cream.
Before the scandal broke, it started as a rumor. A student had told the Dean of Student Affairs that her roommate was having sex with a professor. She and her roommate were both in the professor's class, and the girl who reported it was apparently worried that--of all things--her roommate was trading sex for good grades. When pressure from the campus newspaper forced the university to begin a formal investigation, that's when the phone calls started.
By this time, I was hardly a little girl anymore. It was the summer before my senior year of high school and I had just turned 18. Still, I was naive and innocent, and my Dad shielded me from it as long as he could. He kept my attention focused on the upcoming tennis season. My prep school had a top flight team, and as captain, I was gunning for a D1 scholarship. As a summer job, I was coaching a clinic for elementary school girls on the university campus. That's where I was heard the news.
I'll never forget that moment, standing on the baseline on a beautiful day in my tennis whites, when my friend Allie sprinted up the chain-link fence that surrounded the court. Her face was red and I could see she was crying.
"Lo! Lola, come quick," she sobbed. "It's your Dad!"
I dropped my racquet and ran up the fence. By the time I reached the fence, there were already tears in my eyes, though I wasn't sure what they were for. Car accident? Heart attack?
"Wh... what happened to my Dad?!"
Allie took two deep, gasping breaths, wiping tears and sweat from her eyes.
"It's your Dad. Some--some girl," her voice dropped to a whisper. "A sophomore told the university paper she had sex with your Dad!"
The sophomore's name was Kelsea, and as it turned out, she was far from the only one. After she went public, seven other girls came forward, each one alleging that she had engaged in a sexual relationship with my Dad while studying at the university. The earliest relationships had started about a decade earlier, shortly after my little brother was born and around the same time that I was going on daddy-daughter dates. All of the girls were over 18 at the time the alleged relationships began, though some only just barely. None accused my father of sexual assault, though the ones that came forward said they did so because they felt that, to quote an article in the school newspaper, "Professor Andrews acted unethically by leveraging his popularity and status to exploit the power imbalance of the teacher-student relationship for his own sexual gratification."
