June, 2008
In June of 2008, I was coming up on my 33rd birthday. I was struggling with depression more than usual. I know. Women are moody and emotional, but this was different.
Three months earlier, I had sex with my father. And in the days following that sick act, I withdrew. I started avoiding Morton (my father-in-law), not taking his calls. He called three or four times a day. At first, I took his calls just to say that I wasn't feeling well. He asked about symptoms, as if I had some physical illness. I said it wasn't like that. I just needed some time alone.
I would spend hours in front of the bathroom mirror, trying to put on makeup. And I couldn't get it right. I hated my face. I hated the war paint. Every look was the wrong look. I didn't know what I wanted to look like.
I was out of pot to smoke and with no desire to look for any. I was drinking hard liquor to the point of being a stumbling, mumbling idiot. I was calling in sick, not wanting to work, not wanting to face the men at the bar who wanted to see if they could get their waitress to sneak into their car in the parking lot for a blow job.
Not that I did that. But they asked. They knew me and they asked and I had to expect it.
I was full of regret. Fucking papa was the bitch of all psychological hangovers. And I dreaded him calling me, looking to me to relieve himself again. I knew he would. Now that he had his taste, he'd be back. It was just a matter of time.
But he did not. The days passed, and there was no call. And somehow they just made it all worse. I'd sit in front of the mirror, drunk, tearing up, my makeup all smeared up, and tell myself, 'Daddy killed his little girl. He just wanted to rub out any sweet sentiment he might have had of me as his Little Angel. He killed off that image of me as his Sweet Baby. And I let him! I encouraged him!"
So, I would stay drunk. And when I went to work, I went to work drunk. And when men at the bar hit on me, I would insult them. Not very imaginatively, either. I'd just say, 'Fuck off!' or something else as lame.
My assessment of myself was that I was one fucked up, stupid cow. The only man that showed me any love was my father-in-law, and I was avoiding him because he did not want it known in public that we were lovers. He had every fucking right to not want that get around. Morton was a good, kind man. How pathetic was I to want him to acknowledge that he was banging his daughter-in-law, and that he actually had feelings for her? Her, a known whore?
March and April passed with me in this deep funk. And it wasn't even a artsy kind of cool, bluesy kind of suffering funk. I was just being a bitch when I wasn't holed away somewhere on a whiny, pitiful crying jag.
I had moments of self-destructive impulses where I told myself I would go back to Roland, that evil pimp and be his slave. 'I'll join his stable and let him hook me on crack. Why the fuck not? what have I got to live for?' But I didn't.
I had a son, I told myself. I lost two children, but I had one. I tended to leave him with my babysitter too much, though. I didn't trust myself around him, didn't think of myself as a good enough mother for him. But I had him to live for. Trouble was, he would grow up and what would he learn about me? What would he think of me?
In the middle of May, my father still had not called. I couldn't believe his moral strength. I thought, surely by now he would give in to his lust and call me, even if it was to get into a nasty conversation and tell me what a disappointment I was to him. I got angry enough about this that one Sunday morning I got up early and went to church.
Oh, I didn't go in. I knew I was not welcome - forbidden, in fact, from stepping inside. But I sat in my car in the parking lot, waiting for service to end, just so he would see me when he came out with my mother.
I waited. I told myself, 'You are going to see my face, papa. You are at least going to have to face me.' And the time came, and the congregation began to exit. He came out with mom and my son and daughter, the babies taken from me by CPS. I was violating a restraining order doing this, but I didn't care.
I stepped out of my car and leaned against the car door. I was dressed in a short, tight navy blue skirt, wearing a light purple blouse with a low V-neck, hose and heels.
He saw me and froze in his steps. My children saw me next. My mother last. I didn't want to confront them any further. I just waved high at them all and tried not to show any expression on my face.
Then I got back in my car and left. The next morning, I called my daddy at his place of work.
"What do you want," he asked.
I meant to provoke him into fucking me again. I didn't care if that was the only way to have contact with him. I would rather that than this long, miserable vacuum. I felt like a criminal banished to some desert where there was no life and there was no light and there was no warmth of any kind.
"Why don't you call me, papa?" I asked.
"Why should I," he said.
"Because you want me. I know you want me," I said.
There was a pause and his voice was full of tension when he did reply, "I don't ... I don't want you nor do I want anything to do with you."
"That is not true. I can tell, in your voice. You want to fuck me right now. You want to stick your cock in my pussy and fuck me right now."
"Shut up with that," he said.
"Come on, papa. Admit it. You want me. Don't you?"
"No, no I do not. I am done with you," he said, but he did not hang up the phone and I did not respond. I let the silence build between us. Then I said, "I think about us fucking. I think about what you did to me."
"You mean what you made me do!" he said.
"I didn't put a gun to your head. You wanted to fuck me. Oh, and you fucked me good. You fucked my mouth. And you fucked my pussy and you put your sperm in my pussy. And you ate my pussy. I made you do all that? I forced you? Are you saying I raped you, papa?"
"Shut up. You evil bitch!" he said in a low, disturbed voice.
"Yes, papa. I'm an evil bitch. But you still want to fuck me."
"Why did you go to church yesterday? I should have reported you to CPS. Do you want that? Leave us alone!"
"I don't care what you do. Call CPS. Why don't you tell them you fucked your daughter while you're at it. Huh? Bet they'd love to hear about that," I said.
There was a click. He had hung up on me. I got angry at that, and called him back. He did not answer, it went to voice mail and I left a three-minute recording describing me sucking my daddy's cock until I got him to cum all over my face.
But he didn't call me. He didn't call me and I wanted him to call me. That just made me feel worse about myself.
I had been toying with the idea of getting back into prostitution for some time. But except for one client I took on the night before I had sex with my father, I had not followed through.
I had been ignoring Morton enough by now that he was not trying to reach me anymore. I was alone. And not having sex, not even with strangers. I was horny and obsessed with getting papa to fuck me and just generally hating myself for getting my head stuck in this box.
I didn't want to be picking up guys from the bar. Word would get around pretty quick and I would get overwhelmed with offers, or so I thought. I decided I needed a weekend out of town.
So, I drove into Coushatta, Louisiana that last weekend in May to visit the casino and mingle with the gamblers. There were plenty of strangers there looking for some female company.
I had a lot of pent-up sexual energy. And that made me work the casino hard. I was getting from $150 to $300 a pop. I just wanted to fuck.
I got there on a Friday evening with three club dresses to wear and no underwear. I bag full of condoms and a makeup organizer. I got my face paint on and dropped by the black jack table first. Admiring the players and scouting for men in need of company.
Between the time spotting my mark, the warm-up conversation, the walk by to my room, the sex and the clean up afterward, I was getting a fuck every two and a half hours. I had two dates Friday night, six on Saturday and four Sunday.
