Even when I was as young as twelve, my father would tell me at least once a week that I had to get a PhD if I really wanted to succeed in this world. Maybe you can imagine just what a fucking headache that was. I liked school, and I liked some of the classes I was in. I wasn't sure, though, that I wanted to spend an additional six to eight years writing papers and taking exams.
Nevertheless, Dad kept hammering away on the theme, and it was pissing me off. I'm an impulsive, creative, life-loving eighteen year old, and back then, felt as though I was being bullied into fulfilling the old man's dreams. I wanted nothing to do with them, to be honest.
His persistence caused me to grow bitter towards him. My mom somehow saw it all as gentle encouragement.
'Your father reflects each day on how his education has benefited him... benefited all of us, Jen. I think you'll agree.'
She'd say something along those lines whenever I griped about him.
I would think of how blissful it would be to not have some narrow-minded, whining asshole looking over my shoulder from dawn to dusk. How wonderful to be simply left alone.
My dad is like that, though. He's 100 percent right 100 percent of the time, and ever ready to convince you of it. What a way to live!
Anyway, he finally threw in the towel when I decided I'd be going to Parsons School of Design to study visual arts.
'And when you get out of that dreamworld, what will you do?' He would ask.
Not a question worth answering, really. A simple 'fuck off' seemed more appropriate. But he was paying the freight on my education, so I just zipped it.
When I'm at school, I share an apartment with two other freshmen, Molly and Rita. We all get along fine, but I have a closer relationship with Molly.
I told Molly about my home life, and about my nagging father.
"He sounds like a real drag, Jen. My dad just let me go my own way, which I so appreciate. So, he was pushing the PhD business since you were what?"
"Twelve." I said, resignedly.
"Shit. That's no age to be weighed down by someone else's expectations." Molly said, lying back on her bed and propping her bare feet against the wall. "That's a time to be biking, or canoeing, or looking at cute boys."
"He enforced my study time." I went on, feeling the long suppressed anger rise in me. "And I couldn't do that in my room. I had to sit at the dining room table under his supervision. It was hell."
Over time, Molly got to know my dad, either by just listening to me kvetch - and she was a good listener - or by asking questions. I talked to her about how my parents interacted, too.
"So, he never interrupts her?" Molly queried.
"No. I guess that's unusual."
"And if she tells him to do something, he goes and does it?" Molly probed.
"Yeah. Always, now that I think about it." I said, beginning to wonder what Molly was getting at.
I came back home for summer. I landed a job at Walmart overseeing the self-checkout section. It's kind of a fun position. The machines screw up fairly regularly, and I just stepped in to fix things. It's better than running endless merchandise over a scanner.
The plan was to stay the full summer. I'd have preferred staying in the city, but didn't have the funds to do that.
I was back home a week and still hadn't dared to go through with the experiment Molly had suggested. Eavesdropping! It kind of made my pulse quicken thinking about it. Molly said I could learn a lot by listening to my parents when they were alone. Her conjecture (Molly is a psych major) is that dad is turned on by controlling women.
In the second week home, I devised a plan. My bedroom is several doors down from my parents', but there is a room we use as a guest room next to theirs. We store stuff in the closets and shelves there, and there is an extra TV which sometimes comes in handy if there is no consensus on what to watch.
One night, soon after my folks went off to bed, I slipped into the guest room. I spread some papers on the coffee table, and placed a cushion on the floor beside them. If, by some odd chance, someone were to enter, I could rush to table and act as if I were going through some old schoolwork. I propped a heavy book up against the door so as to impede anyone coming in, even if just for a few seconds.
Once done with these preparations, I silently entered the walk-in closet that shared a wall with my parents' room. My heart was beating a bit quickly, and I was enjoying the intrigue of it all. I settled in with some blankets to sit on, and with my back comfortably against the wall. Then I pressed my ear to the wall of the closet. I could hear movement in the room, muffled footsteps. Then voices.
"You really do disgust me, Robert." I heard my mom say. The words sent a shock through me. It was as though she were scolding him! I pressed my ear tightly to the wall.
"I know dear." Dad said. "I want so much to make it up to you. I'm just a stupid ass."
"You got that right." Mom retorted without skipping a beat. "But what can you possibly do for me. As we both know, you're good for nothing."
I had to caution myself to control my breathing as these words were practically taking my breath away. I was beginning to believe that Molly's speculation was on target. I waited for more.
"Get up from there." Mom said in a harsh tone. "I didn't give you permission to kiss my feet, you fool."
Dad said something, but I couldn't hear.
"Tomorrow, Robert, when Jen is at work, you are to wash my soiled panties. You'll do it by hand in the basement. They had better be sparkling clean when you're done, or else."
"Yes, dear." came Dad's meek reply.
Wow! It was like he was her slave, or something. I wondered what 'or else' meant. It kind of excited me thinking about it!
Then Dad spoke up.
"Can I refresh you, dear?"
"Look", Mom said in an admonishing tone. "When you get eager like that and talk out of turn... well, it makes me think you don't deserve the honor of refreshing me, as you call it. I'd be careful if I were you."
"I'm sorry dear." Dad said, and I could detect a quaver in his voice as if he were about to cry.
"You're sorry, all right. You're about the sorriest excuse for a man I've ever met. But since it's one of the few things you can do properly then, yes, you can refresh me tonight."
"Oh! Thank you, dear!" Dad answered with enthusiasm. "I'll do a good job. You'll see."
"Okay, then. Shut up and get to work. It feels a bit dirty back there. Get your loser tongue going, and make me clean."
For awhile, I heard nothing. Soon, though, I heard soft moaning and whimpering sounds coming from Dad. Then Mom spoke.
"Deeper, you moron, and higher up. I can feel it's not clean there. What the hell are you doing, anyway?"
Dad's whimpering stopped.
"I'll try harder. I'm sorry dear." he said.
"I have standards, Robert, and you are not meeting them. I don't know. Maybe you're just not that interested." she said with affected nonchalance.
The next words were Dad's, but they were muffled.
"Better." Mom said. "Stay on task, little boy, or you'll have to go without."
There was another muffled and distinctly emotional response from Dad.
"That's it." Mom said. "Mmmmmmmm. Much better. That's my boy."
Well, my head was pretty much spinning as I exited the guest room and headed down the hall. So, Molly was right, and then some! Jeez! Dad was practically Mom's slave. And me taking all of his pedantic, bullying "guidance" over the years. All that time, he was secretly on his knees in the bedroom sucking his wife's ass. Just your basic wimp! It had my blood boiling until I saw that he was more than available to me as well. I mean, what could he say? He couldn't deny his 'role' in the family, especially if I were to relate to him a bit of his mild, whimpering protestations to Mom. Verbatim, that is! What a fucking loser. And acting the all-steady patriarch at the helm. Ha! A veneer that was headed swiftly to its demise. In any case, I planned on having some well-deserved fun that summer.
I took my time. For a week or so after my spying session, I merely observed my parents interacting. There were, indeed, subtle signs of their private relationship. The way, for instance, that he caved whenever there was a difference of opinion.
"Yes, I can see your point, dear." That sort of thing. Or Mom giving him a cold glare. He seemed to wither before my eyes when that happened. He would drop his gaze and stand in a submissive pose, hands at his sides, a sorry look on his face. I guess I'd seen the like of that before, but never quite thought of what it might add up to. Things were adding up now, however.
One day, Dad and I were out by the pool. I'm pretty much an athletic type - strong and lean, but soft in the right places. I swam laps every afternoon after work. I wear my hair fairly short, for the convenience mostly. Who needs to be fucking with long, flowing hair? Anyway, I didn't need a bathing cap; just dove right in. I was developing a nice summer tan, and I liked pulling the waistband of my swimsuit down so that I could admire the contrast of milky-white to smooth bronze.
When I was done swimming I called out to Dad, who was sitting in a chair next to mine reading the finance section of the paper.
I pulled myself up so that I could sit on the edge of the pool with my feet in the water.
"Hey, Dad," I said, "bring me my towel, will ya?"
He lowered his paper slowly and gave me one of his "I'm the dominant male around here" looks.
"What do you think I am, a pool attendant?" he snorted.
"Please Dad, be a good boy. Bring me my towel." I said, giving him a knowing, mischievous look.
"Good boy? What is this, grade school?"
"Sorry, Dad. Just thought you might like being called that. Young at heart and all that, don't you know."
Dad harrumphed a bit, then picked up my towel and brought it to me. I took it from him.
"Thank you, kind sir. You may go now." I said without looking at him.
"Are you playing some kind of game, Jennifer? If so, I'd like to be in on it."
"Don't worry, Dad." I said toweling my hair, then looking him right in the eye. "You'll get it soon enough. Oh, hey, what do you think about my tan?" I said, and pulled my bikini bottom down an inch or two for Dad to appreciate. He got all flustered, tripping over his words.
