I've seen that look, the one that my husband just flashed to our daughter across the breakfast table when he thought I was turned the other way.
In a few minutes I'll be leaving for a two-day visit with my best friend since childhood. Beth and I tell each other nearly everything, but I cannot share the developments of the last few weeks with her. Tonight, while we're eating at the Italian place she loves, I won't let on that I think my husband and daughter are in bed together, their naked, sweaty bodies tangled in the sheets. I would lay even money that their lips and hands will be all over each other before I clear the driveway, and neither of them will go to work today. My three hour drive will be filled with lewd images of my husband's face buried between our little girl's meaty thighs, possibly right here on this dining room table, like he hasn't done with me in a while.
Our daughter catches the shocked expression on my face and stares down into her cereal bowl, pretending to ignore my husband's leer. A smirk flickers at the corners of her mouth. She harbors no guilt. She's proud of herself.
Good. My plan is working.
Perhaps I should explain. Let me tell you a story...
It started innocently enough on a Saturday in July, after I graduated with a useless degree in literature. The best job I'd found was as a check-out girl at the grocery store. I was washing my beat-up old sedan in the front drive, strutting my colorful two-piece, idly hoping that one of my old high school boyfriends might drive by. Maybe they wouldn't notice how much heavier I was. It had been a while since I'd enjoyed a man's special kind of attention.
Dad came home from his golf game, wearing his lime green cotton pants and a yellow polo. As he swung around the far side of my car, his eyes flitted up at me with that 'don't you dare' look. I grinned and flicked the hose in his direction. He jumped back, laughing.
"Allie!" he warned playfully. "You'd better not."
"You look hot, Dad," I teased, and sent the stream a little closer. Too close. Some of the water hit his arm and spotted his shirt.
"Allison!" he yelled, flinging his hands.
"I'm sorry, Dad! I didn't..."
But it was too late. He furrowed his brow in mock anger and he started marching toward me, intent on revenge. My only weapon was the garden hose, and I had no choice but to aim it straight at him, full bore. It didn't even slow him down. In seconds he was on me, wrestling for the nozzle. He wrenched it out of my hands and sprayed me until I was just as drenched as he was. We hugged and laughed, and I squealed when he swatted my butt, telling me what a bad girl I was. Scooping a glob of soap bubbles from the bucket, he swiped it over the tip of my nose before he kissed it, like he often did.
He splish-sploshed off to the house through the open garage door on the side while I returned to the task at hand. Over the sound of the spray hitting the car, I heard Mom yell at him for something. So what else is new? She never gave him a break.
I needed some clean washrags. As I turned the corner into the garage, I stopped cold. Dad was standing by the steps leading up to the kitchen. His wet pants and underwear hung across the rail. He was naked from the waist down.
It was the first time I'd seen it, hanging thick between his legs. It swung heavy as he struggled to peel the soaked polo shirt over his head. He still didn't know I was there. I stared, unable to tear my eyes away from my daddy's penis and the pendulous, wrinkly sac dangling behind it. I'd enjoyed a fair number of them - some larger, some smaller - but this one was different. There was something magical about it. This was the fountain from which I sprang, the source of me. I felt its irresistible tug, like iron to a magnet, and in that moment, I knew that I needed to touch it, to drink from it, to hold it within my body.
Dad squirmed out of the wet shirt. His eyes and mouth flew open when he saw me, and he scrunched over, crossing his hands in front of his prize, muttering a weakly reproachful, "Allie!"
Then his eyes drifted downward. That's when I realized that my fingers were thrust deep inside my swimsuit bottoms. My other hand was draped across my chest, squeezing a little cloth-covered mound.
Neither of us moved. With a seductive smile, I began playing with myself again while my daddy watched. Gradually, he relaxed, slowly standing upright. Nothing in my life was quite so exciting as the sight of my naked father's soft tumescence as it began to rise, growing proud and potent. He began pulling on it slowly.
I was nearly ready to pounce on him when I spied a moving shadow through the kitchen door window. I jerked my hand out of my suit and ran back outside. Only seconds later I heard Mom yelling at him, "Heavens, George! Why are you lollygagging in your birthday suit like that? What if the neighbors saw you? Your daughter is right outside! Do you want her to catch her father buck-naked? That would traumatize her for life, especially with that ugly thing of yours sticking out like that. My heavens, George, sometimes I think I married a complete idiot."
That woman could be a real bitch sometimes.
Before I even finished washing the car, I became obsessed, consumed with a single purpose. That night I began dieting again, skipped Mom's pecan pie a la mode, and took the first of what became daily two-mile walks. I had never been one of the 'pretty' girls; I was always overweight, with a flabby butt and sad little boobs. While I had abandoned earlier attempts at getting in better shape - ice cream is the antichrist - now I had a goal.
Foregoing my usual baggy sweaters and gowns around the house, I began wearing dresses and skirts with billowing blouses unbuttoned to the center of my chest, particularly when daddy was home. I dashed on a little makeup in the evenings, just enough to stay below the blast of Mom's 'whorehouse floozy' shotgun, and painted my nails every few days. My thick, hairy brows got a trim, and I changed the way I wore my hair nearly every day.
It was mostly in the eyes and lips, though. I practiced in the mirror to get just the right amount of dark sultriness, with a tiny sweep of the tongue, then rolling my lower lip inward teasingly. Any time I could catch Dad's attention, I would level my best come-on, followed by a quick glance at his pants. The first few times, he nervously looked away. Then his expression gradually changed to curiosity - was I serious? - and I would lick my lips again, hungrily, with another overt peek downward. Within a week, he was returning my allures with a sly wink and a subtle smile. He was hooked!
As the spare tire at my waist actually started to shrink, I began to dress even more suggestively. For the first time in my life, I really looked good in tighter clothes. With the few extra dollars from my paycheck I went with my best friend, Beth, and she helped me pick out a couple of racy bras from that place at the mall, deep cut and lifting styles that made a real cleavage out of my poor, sagging girls. She begged me to tell her who the new guy was in my life, and I made up a story about a guy I met at the grocery store. It seemed everybody wanted to know about my love life.
"Got a new boyfriend, Allie?" Mom inquired at breakfast as she piled bacon from the stove behind me onto a plate.
"Maybe," was my coy answer, gazing intently at my Dad across the table.
He squinted, quietly gauging my design while watching out for Mom to turn around. I was not ignorant of the conflicts he must have been going through. What I wanted was so dangerous on so many levels. I didn't expect that his decision would be quick or reckless, but patience and determination were on my side.
"I just hope he appreciates how hard you're working to get him, honey," Mom said, setting the plate on the table.
"Do you think I'm pretty?" The question was aimed at Dad.
He started to answer, but Mom interjected, "She's not asking you, George! Of course you're pretty, Allie. You've always been a pretty girl," she said, and I rolled my eyes. "But boys want to marry a good girl, not some whorehouse floozy. Button that blouse up, and he'll respect you more."
That elicited a thin-lipped smile from the other side of the table.
When I laced up my shoes that evening for my walk, Dad asked, "Want some company?"
"Any time, Dad," I answered gleefully.
Side-by-side, we strolled along for a few blocks at a fraction of my usual pace. My mind whirred with insecurity. Was this simply a quiet walk with his daughter, or something else? Something good? Not so good? Dad was never much of a talker, and I was afraid to broach the subject I most wanted.
Then he took my hand. That was all the encouragement I needed. Every anxiety melted away at his touch, and I felt light as a balloon. Our fingers entwined, and I knew everything would be okay.
My usual route took me all the way around the park, but Dad wasn't in the best shape. Even his bald head was reddened, and his breathing labored. We turned in past the playground, and I immediately knew where I wanted to go. I led him around the lake, quickening my step a little.
When we arrived at a bench tucked into a small glen nearly surrounded by willows and tall shrubs, I asked, "Do you want to sit down for a while, Dad?"
"Yeah," he panted thankfully, plopping his stout frame on the bench.
I sat beside him, resting my head on his shoulder. We still held hands, and I laid my other on top. The sun was low, and shadows were deep in this part of the park. We were mostly hidden.
After Dad rested for a minute and regained his breath, he said, "Allie, maybe I don't say it enough, but I'm proud of how you're taking care of yourself. You've accomplished so much. You know you're the first person in my family to get a college degree?"
With a chuckle, I said, "Now if I could only find a decent job."
Squeezing my hand, he told me, "Don't let it bother you, Allie. You're young. All your dreams will be fulfilled in time." He held my head and gave me a kiss just below the hairline.
I sat up, looking into his eyes. "All of my dreams?"
Time suspended while we each wrestled with our thoughts.
Finally, he said cautiously, "Sometimes dreams aren't exactly what you think they might be. You shouldn't have high expectations."
Holding his hand tighter, I replied, "I promise I'll be happy with whatever I get, Daddy."
I prayed we were both talking about the same thing.
