A Love Language Pt 01

I wouldn't say things were particularly difficult at first between my dad and me. I came out as trans when I was in my late teens, and I had thought up until recently that I was the first trans woman my dad had ever met-- the truth is, I had no idea how my dad would respond, and I braced for the worst. The worst was unrealistic, but that doesn't mean the truth wasn't a little tricky. Our dynamic definitely shifted, from one of casual father-son roughhousing to a delicateness that seemed halfway between respect and timidness, with maybe a hint of something that I couldn't quite place. I really didn't want too much to change, but I know he was trying his best.

That was awhile ago, though. I just turned 25 a couple weeks ago-- the catalyst for this vacation-- and we worked out the kinks over our dynamic. Where I was at first shy discussing my experience, we shifted to vulnerable and intimate conversations about what being trans felt like, and what I needed to feel like me. I remember we had this long conversation-- at the time it felt like some sort of business meeting that I imagine my dad taking when he travels for work-- where he sat my down to discuss health plans, and the financial share he would be willing to contribute.

"Hormone replacement therapy, I'm happy to cover," he said, looking over a paper that I'm sure was just there to have something to look at. "At least until you're off my insurance."

"Thanks, dad," I said, trying to express as much gratitude as I felt without sounding like it was fake.

"If you need any electrolysis--" (wow, he did his research)-- "I can cover that too, because I get it through my insurance."

"Goes towards the deductible."

"Goes towards the deductible," he says, almost proud of the knowledge he imparted of cost-saving measures.

"And any plastic surgery, breast implants, facial feminization surgery, all that, I can cover that myself," I said, wanting to establish some responsibility of my own. "I'm not sure I'll want all that, but we'll see how I feel down the road."

"Totally." I know that 'totally', the one that usually precedes his uncomfortable question. "And then, with, um-- if you wanted to do the, uh, the bottom... part..."

There's something very funny about a man who knows the lingo but is too embarrassed to say it. I don't blame him-- he is my dad-- and I had the same awkwardness as I responded, trying to find the balance between candidness and decorum, mostly as not to embarrass him any more than he has.

"Don't worry about that. I'll probably end up keeping--" the sentence started faster than I could find an adequate euphemism for the context-- "yeah. Don't worry about it."

That was years ago, and enough time has passed that we can make fun little in-jokes about it. Still, I think we aren't as close now as we were, say, a couple years ago, shortly after I transitioned. It was still in my awkward early transition phase, and him and I quarantined together. With that proximity, you have to be a little comfortable looking like an idiot in those early stages of figuring out what works for you and what doesn't, and he saw plenty of ugly outfits, ugly hairstyles, ugly nail polish, ugly Nair rashes-- he saw it all. Once COVID died down, though, I found my own place, and he got married pretty soon after meeting someone.

Once I found a place, I think I started really coming into my own-- my hair, once a dirty brunette, has since been lifted to a nice blonde; I got rid of that depression weight I carried around from an old relationship, but kept enough to have some pretty nice curves (I've also found the confidence to say I've got some pretty nice curves); HRT did wonders on my tits, big enough for a handful but not so much that it raises questions as to their authenticity; my legs are smooth, hair-free, a dream to rub together; I got a belly button piercing-- silver, with a blue jewel-- which I still haven't told my dad about, because as cool as a dad can be about his daughter being trans, he's still a dad when it comes to piercings. I've also moved from the 'androgynous shortening of my name for simplicity' (Jace, short for Jason, my birth name) to a new name altogether (Jessica), and that transition might've been the trickiest of them all, if only from habit.

Quite frankly, I don't see much of my dad at all. We'll send the occasional meme to each other, or he'll show me a YouTube video of some structural engineering timelapse and I'll respond with a "so cool!"-- but we've drifted apart some. He has a new wife now, Daryl Hannah (no relation to the actress, weirdly enough), who I get a long with fine-- I can never quite tell if she's cool with the whole trans thing, but she hasn't given any indication she isn't.

This vacation was meant to be a bit of a reconnection thing, I think. It's a dual 'happy 25th birthday!' and 'happy you're getting off my insurance day!' celebration-- not the most ceremonious occasion, but I'm not arguing with a trip to The Bahamas. My dad's wife couldn't make it-- "Havana syndrome," my dad said, with the straight face of a comedian, "the Commies got her."-- so it was just the two of us.

I roll my car up to the block around the corner of his house like he said-- something about parking enforcement-- and pull the suitcase out of my back trunk before locking my car three times, counting each for some peace of mind on my trip. I walk up to their house to see him moving some boxes around in the garage. I don't even bother trying to sneak up on him-- ever since I was a kid, he could hear you moving from the other room, and would happily play the role of clueless until you got three feet away and he'd turn around to scare you. You adapt in funny ways when your dad is like that-- I can hear the change of his keystrokes in the other room, for example, when he can hear my footsteps across the floor, a sort of knowing you're caught.

As I walk up, I try to anticipate his trick of saying something with his back turned, something he likes to do when you think his guard is down. "'Don't ask what I'm doing with all these stupid boxes,'" I say, in my best My Dad impression I could muster.

"That's not exactly what I was gonna say," he says, turning with a smile. "But it would've been 'stupid box' related."

I put my bag down to give him a hug. He wraps his arms around me, and my surprise in his strength pings this guilt in me, that I actually haven't seen him in quite awhile, long enough for him to put on some muscle. He kisses my temple and I squeeze his waist, then let go to turn my attention to the what was important.

"So what are you doing with those boxes?" I say, with a coy smile, as if I already know who asked him to move them.

"They're Hannah's," he says with a sigh. My stepmom prefers to just go by Hannah, which I actually understand, as a woman who had, for a while, a masculine name. "She asked me to make some space in the garage so her poker friends could park there while I'm out of town."

"They're her boxes? And she wants you to move them? For her friends?"

"Jess, someday you'll have a husband and a thousand boxes that you don't feel like moving, and you'll be lucky he loves you so much."

"You got me there," I say, loading my suitcase into his car. "Is she driving us to the airport?"

"We're parking at the airport. Don't get me started," he says, closing the trunk with an exasperated smile.

///

The flight was as fine as a 9 hour flight could be. I spent most of it either playing Balatro on my phone with my headphones in or sleeping. My dad hit the jackpot and found that Alaska Airlines had every episode of Monk that exists, apparently. Every now and then my dad would ask to listen in one of my headphones, if only to tell his favorite joke-- "is this SOPHIE?"-- and I fell asleep sharing his headbuds listening to an episode of Monk, my head resting on his shoulder, my arms wrapped around one of his.

When we landed, we didn't quite rest as quickly as we hoped. The shuttle to take us from the airport to our resort was late (something about how the keys were missing, and were found, somehow, in the plaza fountain) and two more groups of arrivals had to be packed in to a small shuttle bus with our cohort. My dad, maybe a little too courteous, offered us up as standing room. We spent the thirty minute shuttle with the middle walkway packed, my dad and I facing each other, my eyes just barely peaking over his shoulders. He smelled a bit sweaty, but in a way that I forgot I knew-- familiar, comforting. Every now and then, the bus would hit a bump and the bus would rock back and forth, and he would instinctively grab me by the waist, just to make sure I don't go flying out the window somehow, a dad reflex he can never really drop.

When we got to the resort, the front staff was flooded with three times as many people expected at once, all a bit cranky yet patient as they formed a queue at reception. It was a Sunday, and just as many were trying to check out as were trying to check in, perhaps more. My dad and I, not quite excited about standing for another forty minutes, dropped our bags off and wandered the grounds of the resort. We made note of the Italian restaurant in the hotel, the bar attached to it, the croquet green, the other hotel bar, the outdoor ping pong table, before finally stopping at the pool on the other side of the building. He did that thing my dad loves to do and asked the lifeguards all about their jobs while I had to duck in the shade of the lifeguard chair or the back entrance awning or behind my dad so that I wouldn't get sunburned.

We chatted while we walked, and fell back into our comfort with each other. Visits lately have mostly been dinner at his house with Hannah, and we haven't been able to ebb and flow as well with Hannah there. Stories needing explanation, jokes less deep, the unstable communication from within the family to without. We haven't spoken at length since maybe last March, when we had movie night while Hannah was in Singapore for a chess tournament.

It's not as if a whole lot changed in the eighteen months. New boyfriend, we broke up, back together with old boyfriend ("Matt," he said, as if proud of himself for having remembered), broke up, thought about quitting my job, started seeing this girl for awhile (funny enough, despite his familiarity and comfort with my transition and my dating life, it's always the parts about dating girls that he seems a bit bashful, stuttery). These are all bits he knew from dinner conversations or quick texts, but it's as if I was able to speak a shared language again, like he didn't know how I felt about everything until now.

We stopped by the ping pong table on the way back to play-- what else?-- some ping pong. I waited by the table to reserve our spot while he fetched the paddles from the groundskeeper's booth.

He comes back with a carrying bag and a a coy smile, the kind that he has when he found himself alone in a ridiculous situation, as if I wouldn't believe him.

"They were, uh, very low on paddles. Do you want the red paddle, or the plastic silver paddle with stars on the handle?"

"You're kidding."

"Guests can have them on hold for two days, which is great, but it also means they run out of good paddles pretty quickly over the weekend."

"Well, we could just fly in on Friday instead of Sunday," I say, with just enough sarcasm to cue him in on the joke.

"Well, Jess, you should see the deals you can get when you fly in on Sunday," he responds with a smile, not falling for my teasing ignorance.

"You can take the silver plastic one. I'll probably need the advantage anyways. You take ping pong more seriously than any 50-year old man I know."

"How many 50 year old men do you know?"

"A couple."

"A couple? How long have they been together?"

He got me there. I let out a giggle and walk over with my hand out.

"I'll at least give you the ping pong bragging rights to say you whooped your daughter's ass with a plastic paddle."

He hands me the red wooden paddle, and he walks over to his side of the table.

"Well, Jess," he says, holding the ball in serving position, "maybe you should, um, be better at ping pong."

"Nice zinger, dad. Very smooth." As I finished my sentence the ball pinged right past me.

"One to zero, first to eleven, seven to the skunk."

///

When we made our way back to the reception desk, it had all but cleared out. We got stuck behind three of the most time-consuming guests that have ever needed to be checked in ("Do you have an ironing board in the hotel room? How much of the mini bar is keto? Do you mind if I bring one of the shampoos back with me? How much of your gift shop is keto? Where should we park our car? Honey we didn't drive here, it's an island."). Maybe I had just become acclimated to the warm outside air, but the AC was biblically cold. I huddled against my dad with his jacket on while I shivered and held his warm body close. It was worth conceding my prior ridicule for him bringing a damn jacket to the Bahamas.

We finally got checked in and made our way up to our room. We weren't so frugal that we got a one-bed room, but we definitely didn't go for the two-room suite. Without deliberation, he took the one closest to the main door and I took the one closest to the window. Exhausted, we crawled into our respective beds for a perfect afternoon nap.

///

I woke up before him and decided to make my way down to the lobby to look around a bit more. I stopped by the gift shop and scanned the array of tchotchkes and cards this small Bahamas hotel carried (it was mostly keto). I decide to buy a small hand towel for Hannah, one of those thin but beautiful hand towels that don't dry anything. I made note of the interior entrances to the bars and found my way back to the main staircase that took me to the bifurcated second floor landing.

After a little bit of confusion walking down the hotel hallways, I find myself down the right corridor (I had tried going down the left one at first). Remembering the position of our room in the repeating square of hotel room doors but not the number, I try a couple different doors until one gives me the right beep sound. I walk up to the front right door and try my key-- blip-- then move down the corridor to the next front right door-- blip-- then the next-- blip-- God it's cold in here. Then the next-- beep!

I turn the handle, wanting to tell him how silly I must've looked just now, before I heard--

"Jess hold on--"

I stop, door only cracked, waiting for his next word on the other side of the door.

"Sorry," he stutters, "I was just-- I was about to hop in the shower and I'm just naked kinda."

"Oh, sorry."

"It's all good, I'll just need like ten seconds."

I pause, and hear him scurry into the bathroom, closing the door behind him.

"All good?" I call.

"Yep."

I open the door slowly, making my way cautiously as if he was still there. The bed is disorganized, and his boxer briefs lay on the floor where he was standing. I make my way into bed and put a pillow under my feet. The television was on some game show, with blips and beeps like that of the room doors.

"Sorry," he yells through the door. "Bad timing."

I mute the tv. "What?"

He cracks open the door a touch. "Bad timing."

"Oh, dad, you're fine. It's all good."

I hear the shower turn on. Without noticing, I catch myself running my hand up my thigh, my teeth touching my finger, both giving me chills. I'm shivering. I look over to the unmade bed and imagine how warm it is, how cozy it must be-- pre-heated, smelling like someone I found comfort in my whole life. What's the harm in a little comfort?

I gently ease myself into his bed, pulling the cover over my legs, my loose pajama shorts pulled up so I can feel the warmth all the way up my leg. The warmth touches my ass, and a flush of pleasure sweeps my body. It felt like I was being held.

My eyes half-fixed on the tv, half staring into space, I lose my train of thought and the placement of my hand. I find it tucked into the waistband of my shorts, my fingers grazing the tip of my cock. I touch it idly, letting it twitch with the brief brushes of my fingertips. I think-- surely, once he gets out of the shower, I can find my way back to my own bed, I can stop playing with myself-- maybe I'll let myself enjoy this a little bit.

I slide my shorts down until my cock is sitting upright. I glide my hands across the base of the shaft and start gently stroking my cock. I put my other hand on the bed, feeling the warmth of the sheets, then moving that warmth my tit, grabbing a handful of my breast. My eyes are closed, and my deep breaths guide the rhythm of my hand.

It was only after a small whimper that a thought catches me. it's a quick realization that lead to a sudden panic: I never heard the shower curtain open. I wonder if he can hear me, and my hand pauses as I track the geometry the sounds of his footsteps and shuffles follow. There's a subtle change-- before, I heard the clinking of the razor on the sink basin, the unwrapping of soap bars and the gathering of face towels, interspersed continually with his footsteps across the bathroom tile floor. Now, it's a movement, then a pause; a delicate unwrapping, then a pause; a putting of his phone down, then a pause; he is listening, and he heard me whimper.

Something about that made me unbearably turned on. Embarrassed, mortified, but driven to continue by sheer euphoria. I know my dad-- if he was listening, even with the shower running, he could hear my hand brush against the sheets. Maybe I could play dumb with him, but I know what my own mind and hand are doing-- they're encouraging this.

I continue stroking my cock, careful not to give any indication beyond reasonable doubt. That's not to say I'm being particularly sneaky with my movements-- I know what loud and quiet hand motions against the sheets sound like. With each stroke, my body reels, and I hold myself in to avoid writhing too loudly in his bed. His warmth is still pressing into my skin, and I'm pressing back.

Suddenly, I heard a sound myself, unmistakeable. It was the drop of a towel, and a pause-- the opening of a bottle from the counter, the delicate squeeze as to not arise suspicion, a tear of toilet paper.

I already know it. He's stroking his cock.

I hesitate as to whether I give away what I know, in a pause, or a stretch, but decide to continue-- to play dumb with my own shadow of a doubt. Maybe it's because of this empowerment, but I let out another little whimper, and a squirm in his sheets. There's no way he hasn't heard me now.

The silence fills my mind with possibilities. I'm imagining him standing at the sink, hearing his daughter stroke her cock, wondering what her body looks like in his bed, touching herself, imagining him trying to sneak a peek, to see how she touches herself, to imagine holding her close again--

I hear something: a moan of his own, a short and uncharacteristic 'mm'. It's a sound I've never heard from him, and it all but verifies what I think. He's stroking his cock. It was hearing his daughter's moans through the door, imagining her hand between her legs-- in his bed!-- and I wanted to make him think about me, undeniably his.

I start writhing around in his bed, louder-- I moan, not so loud as to give away my innocence if questioned, but loud enough that he'd hear it even he wasn't masturbating. I was getting bold, and I heard periodic grunts from the bathroom and I started stroking my cock faster and faster. I was so close-- I could feel myself coming. At this point, I don't care-- I'm imagining my dad in bed with me, his cock pressed up against me, his hands running across my tits as I bury my face in his neck, I--

"Dad," I whisper, so softly, as my craned neck buckles.

As I come, my muscles contract-- I start shaking, but try as much as I can to not make a sound. The blood in my body runs warm, and every inch of skin feels held, kissed, fucked. My muscles relax, and my eyes open.