Daddy, I Can't Sleep

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I didn't need him anymore. I had developed something of a relationship with a real boy, Jeff, a kid in the new neighborhood. Jeff would beg me to let him kiss and touch me, and I would tell him no. That expression of my power made me feel great. Here someone was sexually focused on me, which made me feel alive. But at the same time, I was able to prove to myself that I wasn't an awful person because I didn't let him do things to me. As an added bonus, I had the opportunity to reject unwanted sexual advances, something I was never able to do with Dad.

I tried to comfort him. I pulled myself next to him, lay my head on his shoulder, and curled my arm across his stomach, the way my mother used to hug him. His belly was soft and fleshy. He had just eaten but it felt like his stomach was empty.But the sex itself wasn't necessarily enjoyable for me. I wanted the sex, no doubt, but I also used it to keep feeling ashamed. I was casual and cavalier about having sex, refused to take it seriously -- and as a result ended up feeling awful about some of the sexual choices I made. orphan_account Fandoms: Father/Daughter - Fandom, Incest - Fandom, Hardcore - Fandom, daddy - Fandom

Recently I read that national radio host Tom Leykis urged his male listeners to "hit on" female victims of incest and sexual abuse: "If you think that a woman's more likely to put out, or more likely to be good in bed because she has a history of abuse, is it wrong to try to find that out and then go for the gold?" At first I cringed in anger that the comment had been made, but then I cringed in shame, knowing that in some ways the comment described me. I had been promiscuous. I had gone out of my way to make sure that my lovers thought I was a talented sexual partner. I heard you at the funeral.” My hands were fists. The utensils dug into my palm, cold and hard and unrelenting. “I heard you say how much you loved how Mom was just so messy, Dad. I heard you, and you said you loved that about her. Well then how come when she was alive you’d yell at her for it, huh? You’d get into fights all the time because she just wouldn’t clean up her crap. Can you tell me why that is, Dad? Were you just faking for the people at the funeral? Were you afraid that Grandpa and Grandma would be horrified that you’d dare to insult their daughter at her own funeral? You were just lying, then, Dad. You were lying to that whole bunch of people.” I turned on my side and faced away from him, closing my eyes. I opened them after what felt like hours. I couldn’t sleep. Neither could my father. He usually snored – big, monstrous snores that could keep people in the next room awake. The night was painfully silent. A buzzing began in my ears and it was deafening. My eyes were closed, my lids pressed against cool window glass. I was soothed. I was calmed. I felt guilty for pulling away – I knew how it hurt to be pulled away from. I turned over to face her, to look in her eyes as I apologized.

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. OH GOD DADDY!" I moan loudly and then the knot in my stomach goes away and I feel an amazing rush of pleasure. Daddy lifts his head and removes his fingers. 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.

I felt tears in my eyes as he pulled away. I didn’t know why I was crying so soon after I had stopped. I tried my best to conceal it. I sniffed as quietly as I could. I pressed my face into the pillow. 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. 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? 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 thought it meant that I was special. I didn't know it would turn sex into an act of shame.

Ullman SE, Peter-Hagene Lc, Relyea M. Coping, emotion regulation, and self-blame as mediators of sexual abuse and psychological symptoms in adult sexual assault. J Child Sex Abuse. 2014;23(1):74-93. doi:10.1080/10538712.2014.864747 I was a very well behaved child; I had all the proper manners for a proper lady. Thanks to my father.