Despite my 'me time' now being reduced as my trips to Leeds were less frequent, I still had plenty of opportunities to reflect and, of course most of that reflection was about me. Well, that's what spoiled Essex girls, rich, well ex rich now, bitches think about isn't it - mainly themselves! My main reflections were how I had got to where I am with sex. What had caused it; why it played such a large part in my life; was I unusual, and where might it take me as I burst into and possibly struggled with it through my rapidly approaching thirties? Okay, I didn't know of any of my friends who were so into sex as to be making a living from it, but then they may have been just as sexually active as me but giving it away. I too had been like that, an amateur, pretty much, until I met James, my now getting on for sixty-year-old lover. Not that he caused me to become a professional - that was just coincidental.
During those reflections, I thought back over my life generally and my sexual life in particular. Surprisingly, in retrospect I was a late starter, not really getting going on the sex bandwagon until well into my late teens, and my early appetite for it was not that large. Incongruously I suppose, I still don't really have that high a sex drive and this is where it gets complicated. I get aroused quite easily but do not need to satisfy that need as often as many of my contemporaries do. Apart from when I am posing, I can go quite some time without having sex. And even when I am working and showing off my bare body to photographers, I don't have that strong a need to actually be fucked; merely looked at. At the heart of my sexual paradigm, I have concluded, is my exhibitionism, my strong desire to be looked at and visually approved of and, preferably, adored.
The 'thing' with my dad that I am sure a psychoanalyst would suggest has conditioned much, if not most, of my adult sexual behaviour, built up over the few years in my late teens. There wasn't one big event; nothing in particular occurred that I could put my finger on and say that was the start or the cause of what happened between us. But looking back I can identify a series of events that cumulatively add up to a pretty powerful reason as to how my, and I guess his as well, attraction developed.
It had started, as far as I can recall, as his and mum's relationship began going tits up. That brought him and me closer together and pushed her and me further apart. My mum and I, being very similar personality-wise, had not got on since I had grown up. So, as their relationship blew up and fell apart, he and I got closer. We talked one to one a lot more and gossiped, mainly about the family, had secrets between us and had our own little jokes, stood closer together, touched each other more often and probably unnecessarily, though not at first sexually, held each other's gazes and generally developed a very close relationship. This closeness built up over several years and accelerated quite rapidly after I became an adult and especially after my nineteenth birthday. During that time, there were a number of striking examples which, looking back, were I guess 'stepping stones' towards the fullness of a loving, incestuous father daughter relationship.
The first major incident happened at my eighteenth birthday celebration party. That had been delayed for nine months as I had been travelling on my gap year when I was eighteen, so I was nearly nineteen at the time.
It was near to the end of the party, which was held at mum's golf club. Dad asked me to dance to a slow, smoochy number and near the end of it, when he was holding me quite tightly, I felt him getting hard. Other than him moving away a little, neither of us did anything. We continued dancing, almost on the spot and twice more I felt the length of his erection brush against my stomach.
"Sorry Jay," he whispered as we left the dance floor at the end of the number. I said something like 'not to worry' and we moved on. But of course, it had registered strongly with me and I wanted to talk it through with him, find out what it meant and get to the bottom of what to me was a bloody big deal, my dad getting a hard-on when with me. I'd had guys do that and their explanation was clear, they wanted to fuck me, and some got lucky and did. Was that what he wanted, was that what him getting hard when holding me in his arms meant? I wasn't sure and wanted to know, but I was scared to ask so I left it, but it lingered in my mind.
The second significant event happened a few months later when I bought my new outfits for the round of job and university interviews lined up for me after I finished my gap year.
I'd had plenty of practice at shopping and my mum had taught me well. So, I knew Knightsbridge with its boutiques and, of course the brilliant Harvey Nics, and the stodgy but huge Harrods as a good fall back, was the go-to area in London for proper, grown up shopping.
So, I spent pretty much the whole day in town and struggled home on the tube, laden with bags holding the stuff I'd bought - some Perla underwear, tights and a few pairs of stockings, hold ups and my very first suspender belt, two pairs of shoes and some other knick-knacks. Thank God for dad's Amex!
When dad got home from work at roughly his usual time of seven, I was cooking dinner for us. I enjoyed doing that; well, as long as I didn't have to do it too often. It made me feel very grown up and, as I was starting to admit to myself, closer to him. I hadn't got on well with my mum for some time and occasionally when I heard noises from their bedroom I felt full of jealousy. My thinking hadn't gone as far as imagining having sex with my dad, but I often imagined being in his arms as I had been at the party and the feeling his erection against me often featured as I masturbated.
"Had a good day love?" he asked kissing me on the cheek.
"Yes, great and to celebrate I've cooked a real dinner so no takeaway for us tonight," I grinned as he went off to get changed.
As we ate the roast chicken I'd cooked, I told him that I'd been shopping and had got both my interview outfits and my school prom dress.
"Actually dad," I said after we'd cleared up and moved into the small lounge or TV room as we called it, "could I borrow your camera to take a few photos to send to mum for her opinion?"
"Why's that?" he asked.
"Well, she's much more up on what's fashionable and what suits me isn't she?"
"Yes I guess so and she'll be pleased, but can't it wait until she gets home?"
"Not really because if I need to change any, I don't have much time when she gets home so I'd rather get it done tomorrow or Saturday."
"Okay then I'll get my camera."
I went up to the granny annex over the garage that he'd built for me a couple of years ago, got the bags and brought them all down. Pulling what I had selected as my interview uniform out of the Harvey Nics bag, I held it up and asked, "What do you reckon dad?"
"Mmmm nice, but hard to tell like that."
"What do you mean?"
"I'd need to see it on, rather than like that, as I am sure your mother would too."
