tagIncest/TabooMy Dad is my Valentine

My Dad is my Valentine


Author's Note: A thousand thanks to Alice_Rosaleen and to my ever supporting wife mrssecondsamuel for editing. This is a Valentine's Day contest piece so please vote!


The first thing I noticed was that the girl looked a lot like my mom. Blonde, busty and beautiful in a way that made me jealous. Her much larger breasts bounced up and down as my soon to be ex-boyfriend moved his cock in and out of her. Then her breathy dirty talk came out of the tiny speakers, rising higher and higher over the sound of their flesh smacking.

"Oh fuck me, Daddy! Fuck me! Please let me cum... Please!"

The scene played out on the phone in front of me. My eyes widened in shock as I watched my boyfriend holding the camera, his other hand on his cock as he moved it back into the blonde bitch in front of him.

The Pixel weighed less than a brick and fell involuntarily from my trembling hand. It dropped without leaving a crack in his precious phone, nor the crater I so desperately desired to swallow me up into the center of the Earth. Nothing less would absolve me of the colossal mistake of having sank so much time and energy in such a liar, such a cheater, such a, such a fucking...


Just like everyone, just like Dad told me during our last all-out, pay-per-view only, bare-fisted verbal brawl over my most recent choice in boyfriends. And I fooled myself. I made excuses, when anyone dared mention my relationship with Perry, a struggling guitar player who couldn't even manage to put a set list and a band together. I had been patient; I tried; I even supported Perry when he decided to try playing full time. At least early on when he bounced from unambitious job to unambitious job, he was at the same life stage as I was. When I was working my ass off as a teaching assistant, and he had dropped out to to play music, things made sense.

Only now I was a professor of English literature at UT San Antonio and he hadn't been employed for over six months. He spent his days wandering around the city, saying he was looking for work, saying he was about to be finished with this or that killer song, and I supported him. But I couldn't help but notice the looks he would give some of my students, mainly hot, blonde teens on Daddy's dime, beautiful enough to get away with anything and everything.

My parents were kind of "free love" or whatever hippie thing I tried not to think about, so jealously wasn't a natural thing for me, and I let a lot of the flirtatious behaviors go. But here I was staring it down in the face. Evidence so carelessly left by a person who apparently cared so little about my feelings that they were so fucking obvious. And me stupid enough to let it happen.

It had been two years, and sex had been stale. Not like this video. Perry thought the 'Daddy' thing was weird with me. It was something he "went along with" when I wanted it, making me feel like the fucked up one for wanting ridiculously common dirty talk. My Dad and I were close, but he was gone a lot doing some barely believable work thing with this band or the other, writing about their exploits as he partook in the rock and roll lifestyle from the sidelines.

Absence makes the heart grow fonder. And maybe some of the times we had together we seemed a little too close. My family was always affectionate, overly so, maybe from too much rock and roll. But I never saw anything wrong with holding hands or cuddling up next to him during a movie, because I never knew when I'd see my dad again.

He wrote and lived under the assumed name Samuel Clementine, since my grandparents had making the mistake of giving him Mark Twain's birth name. Samuel wore the moniker as if he were a character, and became one in the rock and roll community. He was intimidatingly cool, and could tell stories or show pictures of himself playing either piano or guitar with almost everyone he wrote about, and everyone I loved as a rebellious teenager (Ben Folds, Billie Armstrong, Jakob Dylan) as if it was no big deal because they were as great as the stories he'd been doing back in the day.

Perry wasn't the first boyfriend Samuel didn't like. He probably wouldn't be the last. But usually, though I hated to admit it at the time, my dad was right. If anything I was embarrassed that it took so long for me to pull the trigger on my leech of a boyfriend, who could never keep an audience with his mediocre music as my dad kindly referred to it as in our last fight over it.

It became an issue with my Dad, a constant fight that had kept me cagey and distant around him for the past few months. My parents had split up years ago, my mom, always getting pulled back into my father's infectious charm, and "Samuel Clementine" too set in his ways to ever settle down and stop traveling with the latest new band. Time and again, mom had gotten tired of it and told my dad to quit the road, saying he was too old and too successful to need to do it anymore.

But Dad loved the music.

And everyone in music loved Samuel Clementine.

He was THE musician's writer. Hunter S. Thompson with and without the drugs. Patrick Fugit from Almost Famous, all grown up, more sexy and suave than ever. Rolling Stone, Entertainment Weekly--all the major publications wanted the pieces he penned when he felt like it, all written under that ridiculous pen name. My mom had refused to change her name to it, saying that if Samuel Clemens wasn't good enough for Mark Twain, he might as well use it. So we were one of those weird hippie free love families, addicted to the arts, expressive, communicative, but also combative, emotional, and irrational like everyone can be at their worst.

Only Dad wasn't always there. He was off playing music, being Samuel Clementine instead of just Dad. And he and Mom could never quite keep it together or keep themselves apart. It was impossible to explain, and impossible to relate to anyone with, because we did have money and a lot of freedom. First world problems, but problems nonetheless.

I know I sound stupid and spoiled, but there were times that I felt only sympathetic towards my mom.. I mean sure, what teenage girl gets to meet her musician crush backstage (Jakob Dylan, I was sooo into the Wallflowers and sooo fucking stupid when I talked to him), but Dad could also disappear into Samuel Clementine, sometimes for nearly a year a time, following acts, writing exclusive biographies, and conducting "research." And those times he took my brother Scott and I along, his schedule was eaten up with work, which usually seemed to consist of enjoying himself with whatever band he was writing about.

Obviously, Samuel Clementine thought I could do better than Perry.

I had told him that at least Perry was here. And worse things.

And while Perry played house (or more accurately played with the hot blonde barista from the Starbucks around the corner). I wondered if I'd sabotaged things with Dad. And for what? For a guy who could not appreciate the sacrifices I had made in keeping the relationship... our lives going?

For a guy that was fucking another woman on the silk bedsheet I bought!

Simply dropping the phone was no longer enough. Despite having purchased it myself, despite having paid for the monthly plan, I hurled the evidence across the room, letting it fly and shatter against the wall in a very satisfying smash. Still, it wasn't enough. His clothes, his precious records, his fucking guitar, all landed out the second story window of their apartment and onto the lawn. I scourged the place of anything belonging to Perry and then called my brother.

"Hey Alice, it's not really a good time-" Scott began in a rush.

"I need you to come over," I interrupted, out of breath.

"Like right now?"

I nodded, for a second forgetting I was on the phone, and that Scott couldn't actually see me.g.

"Before five, that's when Perry said he'd be home."

"Perry, huh? On Valentine's Day?" Scott said.

"Look I just don't want a fucking scene right now? Okay?"

"It's finally over then?"

Something in his voice told me that he was nearly high-fiving my mother in the background. No one in my family liked Perry. And now it only made having dug my heels in for so long seem all the more ridiculous.


"You know I have a date..."

"With your right hand?"

"Look, why don't you call Dad. He's in town."

"He's in town?"

"He didn't tell you?"

I couldn't say anything.

"You know he's sorry," Scott said. "And now you should be too. He won't say it, but he'll find some stupid, elaborate way to show it. He always does."

I couldn't figure out anything to say. The idea of coming to him after all I had said.

"Besides, I know watching him beat the fuck out of Perry would get you all hot and bothered. I

know you always loved your Daddy/Daughter dates."

That's what Dad called them when he suddenly reappeared and took me someplace special Scott wouldn't appreciate, a concert or a show. He was always doing this with everyone, showing up, usually unannounced with some stories he had written as Samuel Clementine and the real story behind it to tell just us. It was charming, despite how irritating Dad's inconsistencies could be.

But only Scott and Mom still called them a Daddy/Daughter date, and only Scott did so implying any sense of shame. Mom was too artistic and nurturing to ever do more than a gentle tease.

Scott knew my buttons. And got to me.

"Shut the fuck up!" I said, ending the call.

But he had cinched it. I did want to see Daddy beat the fuck out of Perry.

We had always been able to tease each other about these things, even sexual things. He made fun of me for being too much like Mom, and being too into Dad, I teased him about being such a Mama's boy and living at home. Maybe it was because of the vast age difference. Scott had just turned nineteen and I was nearly twenty-eight, so there was more of an Aunt/Nephew relationship than an actual Brother/Sister rivalry. Most people didn't realize we were even related. He had that boyish bookish sort of look: the thick glasses, thin dark hair, and a sort of complexion that showed he had spent more time exploring dungeons and battling their resident dragons than out enjoying San Antonio.

It wasn't that I didn't share any of his features. We both have brunette, almost black hair like our father. But I presented myself entirely differently. Perhaps it's the feminine double standard, that both of us might be whisked away by a strong wind, and I was the sexy one in the family. I developed late, and my experience in high school shaped a girl certainly without much confidence or charisma. Someone who lusted more for quality time with her cool writer father than hanging out with the bitches at school. Ironically, by the time I hit college, there was no shortage of suitors for the brooding, bookish, bitch personality I cultivated. It wasn't intentional; I was never very social, but I quickly noticed college guys have a thing for intelligent women who play hard to get.

Not that I was really playing. I was always competing, always pushing myself, always trying to fake my way out of the my father's shadow. Yes, I love music, yes I loved sex, but give me Brontë to a boner any day of the week, and I can tell you which will leave me more satisfied. For Dad, writing was a failure, something he did to be close to the music, for me writing was everything, and anyone who didn't get that, didn't get in my pants.

So I built up my defenses. I shot down the creeps who vomited up small talk and pick-up lines as though I should be impressed. I had a few boyfriends here or there, but for the most part sex left me unsatisfied. Sex was unimaginative, at least with the partners I chose.

I masturbated in solitude to the fantasies I was really into. The things I felt too ashamed to share. I got more and more kinky, and the same sex with Perry became secondary to my pleasure alone, reading everything from the kinkiest dom/sub fantasies to even taboo family situations, getting more and more extreme with my inner desires.

Perry didn't alway seem to like this, or maybe there was just too much I was overlooking.

His charm at first came from his very indifference to me. I can't remember exactly what he said, or exactly why I paid attention, but he gave the impression of a man that would have been perfectly fine had I refused his initial offer for a date. This was no stammering sophomore, finally summoning the nerve to talk to the pretty girl, Perry knew what we was doing. He had a way of instantly disarming me, of making me feel as though I should covet his attention. And as he treated me worse and worse, I fell into the trap of blaming myself for the shortcoming in our relationship.

And I don't know how far that would have gone.

And it wasn't the cheating that got to me so much. That he had been so brazen as to leave his phone without a password protection had always baffled me. Bad enough that he be so inconsiderate as to parade his conquests around in front of me.

But that he would let another girl call him Daddy- that was our thing.

And a kink with an origin I could pinpoint with a high powered laser.

My mom left my dad right after Scott was born (they have been married and divorced twice), each time amicably enough that there would be frequent periods of where they would hook-up before mom finally thought better of it. They were both decent enough to spare the details, but something about his absence clicked into my ideal version of what a happy home should be.

Sam was a man's man, if that kind of term still has a place in this culture. My dad had thick brown hair, a well-tanned beach body, and a jaw chiseled out of granite. Other than our mother, Samuel had never bothered to settle down with any girl for more than a few months. My brother's joke about Valentine's Day was anything but; my dad hated commitment even as he relished in his philandering. Once, during Scott's parent teacher conference, our father had managed to bed his son's kindergarten teacher. Scott got great grades for the first few weeks, then almost get held back after a month. Another time, Sam ended up leaving the hospital when

I broke my ankle playing volleyball, his arms wrapped around the waists of two very eager nurses.

There were good qualities about Perry. He knew what he wanted which I found attractive. But his charisma, his directness seemed to pale in comparison to Dad's. In fact, the mere idea of the two of them actually coming to blows seemed ridiculous given Dad's height advantage (he was six five, and in much better shape), but I really, really wanted to see that.

I'm not a violent person. But sharing with some slut this strange and unsettling affection I sometimes felt for my often absent father, a kink and a confession I had reserved only for Perry, was a violation beyond any of the other failing of our relationship. But more than that, he made it out to be some fucking big deal when I wanted to call him Daddy but this other bitch!

He needed to be gone I had hoped things would go quickly and quietly when Perry came home.

Instead, he fumed and rampaged around the yard, pleading, yelling, and making a scene in front of the neighbors, not even bothering to pick up his shit in the yard.

"Look I'm sorry!"

"She didn't mean anything!"

"Just come out and talk!!"


That's when my stubborn resolve finally broke, and I stopped staring at my phone. I slammed the numbers with my thumb, then bit the nail as I waited for him to answer and wondered what would happen.

That my father was rescuing me again wasn't lost on me. Once when I was college, he had yanked out the arm socket of some college guy who kept coming around my apartment at weird hours. There was something sexy about it looking back, sure, but at twenty I felt my newfound independence had been so thoroughly violated by my dad. And now that I'm closer to thirty than twenty, I can see how my father had really stopped what was quickly turning into an abusive relationship in its tracks, though I'd bite off a finger before admitting it to him.

Daddy always had everything figured out. No matter where we went, Daddy always knew everyone, knew the best restaurants, the best bars, the best bands... and nothing else was ever good about it but what he already knew. His approach to everything was something akin to a vigorous lust for every essential experience, a pursuit of perfectionism that most found intoxicating.

Including me.

He gave advice and opinions about everything. It probably was an occupational hazard. It could be as annoying as it was helpful, but we loved him for it. But with boyfriends, he usually just let me decide wrong on my own and dismissed me.

Until Perry.

With Perry, he spoke up, and I stubbornly drew my line in the sand.


And Daddy had warned me. Daddy had just been looking out for me. Daddy had known best about how to take care of his baby girl.

And I was going to have to admit that.

Perry was out on the lawn, his hair slicked down with sweat, his collected and calm image all shattered in front of me as I tried to see what future I ever could have possibly imagined with this pathetic, pleading little philanderer digging through the contents of his life like a transient trying to scrounge up a meal from the garbage. But he wouldn't leave. The man was ranting and raving for the whole neighborhood to hear, shouting hateful epithets, doing little more than embarrassing the both of us. It was announced to the neighborhood that I was a stupid slut, that it wouldn't ever happen again, if we could only just talk about this.

I reassured myself that I had been right to call Dad. Scott might be a little intimidating (he had our father's physique) but clearly he finally had met a man for Valentine's Day. I had privately started wondering if he was gay. And despite the scene straight out of Jerry Springer unfolding on my lawn, I found myself figuring he'd finally gone through with an actual date. Not that I would be anything other be than supportive, I just know it's unusual for a guy that objectively good looking to never have had a date, let alone a girlfriend. I mean it is 2018, and he had all of us to support him. Why not just live his life openly?

Maybe it was just living in Samuel Clementine's macho masculine, almost cartoonish shadow.

Dad could look as natural on a stage as behind it, and had even joined many musicians on stage during their tours, for a nothing role, as he called it, like rhythm guitar on a song. But other than music and writing, the man couldn't do a damn thing himself, and mom always joked that God gave him talent because he wasn't good for much else. So as he exited the town car, signaling for the driver to wait, he gave Perry the same consideration he might a toddler in the middle of a temper tantrum.

Everything about each step exuded confidence and a kind of ownership. Everything was and had always been within his firm control, and to him, Perry wasn't even worth consideration as he stopped his raving to stare in shock.

Daddy always seemed to have some bit of scruff on his face, never a full beard, but enough to be fashionable. His hair was styled to look deliberately disheveled, in a way that gave the impression of having just woken up looking effortlessly perfect.. He took his helmet and glasses off, the latter of which he only wore when riding his bike or writing, and then seemed to suddenly see me through the window.

He was wearing his brown leather jacket, hanging loosely off of his body, tall, thin and strong. I could tell that no one had picked out his clothes for him because he had on a tight white t-shirt from the 2010 World Cup in South Africa, a shirt that clung to him tightly, showing his defined abs when he stretched. He wore this memento with a pair of blue jeans, the only color combination he was confident in on his own. He smiled at me, the most natural and effortless smile in the world, pointedly looking past Perry as he made his way up the walk.

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