MY STORY: ''I Would Do Anything To Have S*x With My Father Again''

* I didn’t cry. It was painful what he did, but I
didn’t cry. He said it was okay.
I didn’t cry the second time either. I liked it. He
was gentler. He told me it was our secret, our
special thing, and no one should know about it.
I went to him the third time it happened, it was
raining and the thunders scared me. We did it
again, I enjoyed it. We began to do it more often,
and each time I enjoyed it more.
I was twelve that first time, and a happy child,
happier than any other child I knew. I doubt if any
other child had so much love. I was my father’s
lover and he was mine. Everything was perfect.
And then, on my twentieth birthday, the
unthinkable happened.
My father broke up with me. Just like that. He said
it wasn’t right, what we do, and that we must
stop. End of matter. It felt like a full stop at the
end of an epitaph. It was too sudden.
I had no warning, no premonition. The break up
was like death. I had taken the week off from
school just to be with the only man in my life, the
best man I ever knew, or so I thought. I thought
my birthday would have ended sensually, like all
the others. It was usually the best birthday
present he gave me, a passionate night of love
making right out of a romance novel.
It had been a while. My higher education had
taken me away. And I sorely missed my beloved
father. I went home that day with thoughts of my
father obscuring all other thoughts. I arrived late
in the evening. He wasn’t home yet. I made
myself as adorable as he liked. It was not hard.
My allure had never needed much artificial
furnishings; a touch here and a touch there, and I
would be set to win any beauty contest. That
evening I was at my best.
All my preparations and quivering anticipation was
to have ended in bliss, the kind only my father
could give me.
Instead, I got the shock of my life. That terrible
day, I knew exactly how the Deer must feel when
the hunter’s bullet crashes through its heart. I
learnt how it must feel to be shot out of the sky.
I had hoped he didn’t mean it, that this was just
another punishment, but the way he said it
convinced me it was final. I knew my father; I
knew the look on his face. It was the same look he
had when he shot Dragon our Alsatian. This was
not like before when he would refuse to touch me
because I misbehaved. My father had never hit
me or scolded me; his punishments were usually
more severe and silent. He would simply refuse to
touch me for days on end. Such days were hell for
me. I could barely survive without him. When he
was pleased with me, he really would take his
time and give me much pleasure that I never
knew was possible.
I was a very well behaved child; I had all the
proper manners for a proper lady. Thanks to my
father.
But this was no punishment. This was a cessation.
This was my death. I tried to make him see
reason, to convince him that we were to be
forever. I told him of our joys, our laughs and how
love couldn’t be any better. I begged him not to
kill his beloved and only child.
The man was like a stone.
It is true what they say. Men are beasts; unfeeling
beasts.
How could he end something so wonderful,
something so perfect? He said he still loved me,
but I didn’t believe him, I couldn’t believe that. He
couldn’t even look me in the eye when he said it.
There must have been a reason, but I didn’t care
for whatever it was. I knew it wasn’t about right or
wrong, there is no love that can be wrong,
especially the kind we had. It was beautiful; we
were one, my father and I. Our love transcended
that of a father and his daughter. It was the stuff
of heaven. No, His reason wasn’t religious, not at
all, my father wasn’t that sentimental. I was his
sole religion, he worshiped me.
There was no one else either, I knew that much.
My mother died while birthing me. Ever since, I
had been my father’s heartbeat. And he was my
breath. I never missed my mother. I never knew
her, never would meet her. I would, perhaps, have
liked to know her, but somehow I thank God she
wasn’t with us. It would have been awkward. I
don’t think I could have shared my father with any
one.
My father gave no reason for killing me. He
couldn’t explain why we could no longer have
what we had. There was nothing I didn’t think,
there was no thought I didn’t wish to explain his
decision by. Something, perhaps, must have
happened to his hormones. I couldn’t believe this
was my perfect father. I couldn’t believe my day
could ever become so dark.
He only said he was doing it for me, that it was for
the best, my best. How could I have ever believed
the man loved me? He even looked sad that day,
so sorrowful and tired. In better times and in our
previous world, I would have taken him in my
arms as I was wont, and work my magic on him.
Over the years I had learnt his special recipe. I
was the only one who knew his mix. I had never
asked him, but I sensed that even my mother
didn’t take him to the heights I took him.
But his words belied the sorrow on his features. He
had said the break up words so casually, so
matter of factly, as if he had thought it through
and found it a simple matter. There should be a
special kind of voice and words for
pronouncements of that nature, something equal
and suitably terrible. The normalcy and casualness
of his words were a negation. It was like mockery.
I didn’t know I could ever stop being what I was to
him; I had never thought our relationship would
end. But end it did, and in so shocking a manner.
Good things shouldn’t end that abruptly.
Relationships don’t die at once. Death is not a
casual occurrence.
The most painful part of it was that I didn’t die. I
felt like dying. I wanted to die. But I didn’t know
how to go about it. I should have killed him too; I
should have hurt him too. He looked like he was
hurting, but I should have made sure. It is too
painful to feel the pain of death and yet be alive.
There is no pain worse than the pain of death.
And then, the man wanted us to be Father and
Daughter, just father and daughter. I couldn’t
understand why he would want to reduce our love
to something merely biological and normal. Why
on earth couldn’t he see that I could never be
happy as just his daughter, and that I could never
be remotely happy with any other arrangement?
We were happy, I made him happy. Why do some
people reject their own happiness?
For a long time I had believed my father loved
me. On my twentiethbirthday, I knew the truth.
That day was my awakening to the heartlessness
of men, and the absurdity of love. That day, I
grew up, I grew old and I died.
It was the last day I spoke or saw my father. He
killed me, so I made sure I remained dead to him.
I became a living dead, dead inside and alive only
in looks.
As I left him that evening, I looked back a lot of
times. He didn’t recant, he didn’t rethink. He
watched me leave. The tears were streaming from
both our eyelids. I could feel his sorrow; it was
thick enough to touch. The feeling was apt; death
had occurred.
The man came for me twice, later. But he came
as a father coming for his daughter. He should
have come for me as a soul for its soul mate, like
breath for air, like the dying for life. That was what
we were; romance and its love.
He came, just that twice. I waited for him too, but
he never came again. I gave up.
I made a new resolve. Men would learn from me,
the very hard way. I have what they want. My
beauty is the glaring kind that every body agrees
with. But my heart would be a different matter. I
knew most men wouldn’t resist me; they can’t be
as tough as my father, my looks were not enough
for that man to change his mind and do the right
thing, the best thing.
It wasn’t easy. It took a while before I could stand
the touch of any other man, but vengeance
helped me detach my body from myself.
I would forever be grateful for my looks; it was my
ultimate shield. It helped me survive and helped
my resolve. I set off on a mission, to hurt as I had
been hurt. I soon became very successful. I
brought both boys and men to their knees. I killed
them and still left them alive. I remember the
families that fought themselves over me, the
brothers that would never forgive each other, the
scandalized churches and governments, the
suicides, the bankruptcies. There is a lot a body
can do when it is rightly motivated.
My father didn’t know what he unleashed.
Payback is a beautiful side of nature. There is no
payback as sweet and profound as when it’s total
and final, like death. No man recovered that
encountered me.
But vengeance was not so much fun. I didn’t feel
any lasting relief. Hurting men didn’t make me
feel much better; it was a constant reminder to
my own heartbreak. But I couldn’t stop.
Sometimes I wondered what the whole point was.
I could never lose the pangs I had for my father’s
touch. Payback did not completely fill the chasm
that my father dug in me. I doubt if anything ever
would.
I would have easily given everything up for things
to get back to what it was.
I lived like someone on a mission, and I wanted to
be free from the service, but I just couldn’t. In
moments of weakness, I would always think about
what my father and I had. Thinking about our
perfect love brought me tears and gave me joy.
At such moments, I would really try to feel and
have fun, I would let my guard down to see if I
would be alive again. It was no use. No other man
was like my father. No one even came close. No
one was able to get me right, something was
always missing. With my dad it was perfect, he
knew just what I wanted, and how. No two people
were ever in sync as my father and I was. No
other man could bring me alive.
The last time I had pleasure was with my father.
This many years have past, since I lost my
beloved father. And more recently the world lost
him too. I just left his grave side. I have never
been able to understand why I keep visiting his
grave, despite the distance, despite all. And each
time, I always leave with an exhausting longing, a
fiery desire, and an intense craving.
I would do anything; anything, just to have séx
with my father again.