Okay, I'm taking the pledge. I'm joining the MeToo movement. Who wants to be left behind?
So, don't expect a report from Caligula's palace. This is about the bizarre summer when I was graduated from the Academy and came home.
I've written that I suspected why I was shipped to the Academy-a uniformed, co-ed boarding school in Hanging Snot Woods, CT. Stop leering; that means 'Connecticut'. Actually, I did tease some cock, there. Read, "I See Brucey Knickerbocker's Dick."
I figured that Mom deposited me there for safe-keeping when she remarried. My stepdad, Frank, seemed to have a connoisseur's eye for my tall, leggy, breast-free body; beautiful pale skin; and cute face with smoldering brown eyes and short jet-black pixie hair. The Gamin look. I actually made some money posing for teen magazines.
But nothing happened with Frank when I came home to the Upper West Side Manhattan on holidays and vacations. Except trying to find sex. I wrote about buying my first vibrator at the Pink Pussy Kat Boutique in the West Village and falling right into a trap set by a sexy little future trafficker at the Academy.
Coming home, with slightly bigger breasts (let's call them what they are 'titties') each summer, Frank was fine. He loved to stare at me, but he is well-built and handsome, only mid-forties, then, and he forced me to take money every time I walked out the door. Great dad!
Anyway, I came home early June, educated and with my social graces polished by the school, and moved into my old bedroom in the sort of gigantic rent-controlled apartment that the city's aristocracy occupies for zilch rent. That way, they can afford a house in country and everyone knows the city is protecting the poor, who have long ago left for somewhere else or live in the streets.
Ellen, are you ever, ever going to get to the story?
So same week I arrive back, my Mom is off on a business trip. I come home from running in Central Park with beads of sweat trickling down between boobs under the sweat suit. A wave at Frank, into the bathroom, firing clothes onto the floor, and into the shower. God, what a great feeling!
Our shower an ample free-standing, glass-enclosed display case, completely round. Half-round sliding doors. The kind the poor use. I am in the Heaven of Falling Waters, my eyes shut, one hand working up suds in my natural, jet-black, unshaved pooch.
I might have heard something, but you don't notice when you don't expect something. So, I'm stretched back, facing up to the blasting shower, taking a beating on my titties, which by now are nicely conical jobs, separated and graceful upturned, with oddly large and too dark nipples, now a little stiff.
And I hear Frank say, "Don't jump, Ellen. It's just me."
Oh, just Dad. Whew, I thought it was some kind of pervert! What a relief!
I jump so abruptly that I slam against the back of the shower, almost slip on the wet glass and fall on my ass. In best classic pose, one arm flies across my nipples and one hand covers my pussy. My eyes fly open, immediately stinging with soap. And I say, as I recall, "Whaa da fugg fuh crise sake gedda fugg otta heah..."
Not sure if that's an exact quote. My heart is racing. I am not an especially modest girl. Wasn't then. Actually, kind of an exhibitionist. I liked modeling, though dressed, of course-in skimpy black $3,000 sheathes...
"No, listen, I just want to talk with you, okay?"
I am blinking away the suds, splashing water in my stinging eyes; through tears I see Frank has sat down on the toilet and is looking at me.
You have to talk with me now, this second? Is there a civil defense warning on TV that North Korean missiles are coming over the horizon? We have 15 minutes before we go Hiroshima? I did not say that.
Have I won the lottery super prize for $350 million? Probably not; the odds are much worse if you never buy a ticket. Anyway, even that could wait till I came out of the bathroom. I did not say that, either.
