The Christmas in July Luau

Alinya's English was getting a lot better, and I remember one thing she said to me that night that just... probably made things worse.

I wondered aloud if all fathers are capable of something like that.

"Yees av course," she said. "Awl min ahr peegs." (Yes of course. All men are pigs.)

After she said it, she spoke excitedly to Sandy in Ukrainian and they both started laughing hysterically. They explained to me that Sandy's dad 'eez perdverdt,' (is a pervert) and that she had found him sniffing her panties in her bedroom one time and had kicked him the balls.

Thank God for my dad.

That night I introduced them to bowling, which they were excellent at pretty quickly. Don't they have bowling alleys in Ukraine? Alinya and Sandy didn't know, and Kris didn't know when they texted her. Huh. I'll have to reach out to them soon and ask them again.

It was hilarious to see all of the old-timers at the alley looking at them as they jumped and danced and screamed at the top of their lungs in Ukrainian when they knocked over lots of pins. God, they were so tough and cool. Like I said, I feel like I could write several novels about so many things from back then, but I have to move on.

After we finished at the bowling alley, we went to the beach and smoked weed. It wasn't something I had done too many times before—once in high school at a party, and once with Lindsay when she visited the summer before. Aunt Mo and Uncle Mike shared a bowl almost every night, up in their upstairs 'smoking room' or out on their deck. This weed was different from the weed I had smoked before, and I got way too high. It's a wonder I didn't just waltz into the ocean and swim to Atlantis or something.

The sex show, of course, took over my mind, and I came to several head-slicing breakthroughs about the whole thing, which I of course promptly forgot all about by the next morning. 'I figured out time travel!'—that kind of breakthrough. That high, though, did not help prepare me for something that came next. It made me super observant—hyper-aware—when the effects wore off by the next evening. By Thursday.

On Friday morning, my dad showed up at the house.

So, my dad.

Glen.

That summer he was 45 years old. Dad is 6 foot 2" or 3", darker-skinned than me, easily more than twice my weight, with normal dad arm-hair and a regular beard, and that summer he was in pretty good shape. He still is. He's a mountain biker, so I guess that was why. I remember after Mom died he let himself go for a while, but he had gotten that under control by the time I was in high school, and now he looked strong and fit, with a dad kind of belly.

My dad's face looks a little like mine under the brown beard, and so does Dan's. We get our looks from his side more than my mom's side. He had more brown hair that year than he does now, but he's still got a bunch of hair. He keeps it short enough.

When he pulled up I went out and waved to him, smiling wide. He strode up the front steps of the house and gave me a quick hug. Here was the fucking curse of that sex show, rearing its forbidden head—I paid attention to where my own fucking dad put his hands when he hugged me. They landed on my upper back, dummy! Where the hell did I think he was going to put them?

Fuck.

"Hey," he said. "Can you "beer me" yet, or do I have to wait a few more years?"

He did air quotes and laughed at himself like a rat. Typical Dad.

"I can beer you, Dad."

We laughed together and he briefly touched my arm. Again—fuck. Fuck that sex show.

That weekend was great. We all ate more food than I usually did, we all had a bonfire on the beach, and while I did have clients, I managed to slip them in while I was 'working,' and no one suspected anything. Why should they? I was Colleen, the former color guard prude, not a raging, insatiable teenage prostitute slash sexual phenom. Dad came to see me at the shop, and he had a pretty hilarious time exchanging banter with some of the girls, including my best friends there. It's too bad I don't have video or audio of that 10 minutes, jeeze. He left without meeting the owners, suspecting nothing.

Before he left, the four of us got pretty drunk out around the fire pit. He and I had a kind of heart to heart, where he told me that he missed having people at the house and was thinking of getting a place north of Cape May in Wildwood or Avalon or somewhere. (No problem, no clients there.) That would be awesome, I said, but why wasn't he dating? My aunt and uncle and I knew he had broken up with a woman that winter—Trudy—because she wanted to move to the Pacific Northwest. We suspected she had asked him to come with her, but we weren't sure.

He told us that he was on a dating site, and then we sort of moved on and talked about other stuff—politics, memories with Aunt Mo, crabbing or something. Just other stuff.

Dad left on Monday morning, and before he got in the car I patted him on the back and made myself kiss his cheek. He gave me a big dad hug, and I wasn't thinking about the stupid fucking sex show until, as he released me from the hug, he squeezed my upper arm just a little bit. He of course meant nothing by it, but fuck. That show. I had to get past this. I just wanted my dad to be my dad, and not fucking think about this shit anymore, even though with him fully removed from the context the content was growing hotter and hotter to me—the idea of what that father had done.

The rest of that summer was just as amazing as the first part, but time did not heal my wound. As the summer rolled onward through a clear, sunny August, my obsession with the sex show grew larger and more entwined with my life. I tried roleplaying with every client, and it turned out that I had made the wrong choice initially. Arnold, a 54-year-old former doctor with a full head of gray and white hair, became my go-to, and he dove head first into the role.

Arnold took it seriously. I had mistakenly thought that the silly, playful Will would be the one who could act it out with me, but roleplaying for him was just a dumb game to play for a little while. That's how it was for most of our clients, actually. For Arnold, it was no game. For Arnold, my request revealed something within him, something twisted and almost malevolent. You could see it in his eyes. His eyes were immediately different.

Of all the clients, Arnold had always been pretty ho-hum. His body was very much a 54-year-old retirees body, and while he did have that full head of hair, the rest of his physique was not very good. He had more of a gut than my Jules, weird patches of body hair that he didn't keep trim or shaved, his dick wasn't very big or nice to look at, and he just was generally not in very good shape. Our sex since I had first worked for him in June was standard, and I did a lot of the heavy lifting. He liked to watch me dance, though, and I did more dancing for him than for anyone else. I learned somewhere in that first month that I probably could have been a successful dancer at a gentleman's club.

Have you ever seen those women pole dance? That should be a women's Olympic fucking sport. I took a class once. You can't imagine how hard that is.

When I introduced my request, he seemed to go along with it okay, but soon it became crystal clear that he had wanted that all along. Arnold was a very serious person, very stoic and reserved, but still extremely polite and pleasant enough. I had thought of him with Will initially because something told me that deep down he would enjoy my idea. He did. Our sex changed and went way off the rails.

The first time was an exploration of what worked and what didn't work. Spanking was not in the cards for me, and wittle girwl tawk flamed up and I blew it right the hell out. I didn't want to be the little girl. I wanted to be me, a teenager. A new woman. That first time was a sort of awkward, bumbling hour or so of steering our play somewhere. Towards the end, though, we were onto something, and we picked up where we left off literally the next night.

That second night, Arnold had ideas. I stripped down to skimpy, tight spandex shorts and a bikini top, and my pretend dad had me do some easy 'chores' around the house. When I was done, he took me into a dark room to give me my 'allowance.' It seemed kind of hokey at first, but when we got in that room, Arnold had changed even more than the first night. He searched my body like he had never seen it before, and he spoke in an almost terrifying voice. He came up with strength I didn't know he had and he manipulated my body on the bed, looking down at me with eyes of perverse hunger, and I knew I had found my guy.

Still, though, after a little of that, I had to take over and do most of the sex stuff. He couldn't just pretend he had a new, stronger body. I got a good taste of what I was looking for, and I worked for him more than anyone except my Jules for the rest of the summer. I saw Keith a few more times, and hey—I didn't die! I did my rounds through the client roster, but I tried to fit Arnold in whenever I could, even if it was only a half hour, or the wee hours of the morning. After my request, he was always up for it.

The night of that fucking notification, Arnold seemed nervous and hesitant. He actually stuttered telling me what was on his mind. (Aww.) Arnold wanted to try a new idea. His body language told me he was incredibly embarrassed to present the idea to me, but as soon as I heard it I was in.

He called the idea 'Night Visit.' Well, my twisted self kind of knew what that was already. It consisted of me pretending to sleep wearing only a big t-shirt in 'my bed,' and Arnold sneaking in to take advantage of my body.

Arnold wanted me to suck my thumb and hold a stuffed animal, but I didn't want to do either of those things, and he understood. Thumbsucking was only for me and my Jules, and the stuffed animal just didn't fit my own fantasy. He could have just demanded that I do it—after all, he was paying $1,000 an hour for this—but that's not how D&V client-worker relationship dynamics went. I couldn't wait to get 'molested,' though. Consenting adults, roleplaying with each other—you can think stuff like that.

I got wet just waiting for him to open the door. When he finally did, I pretended to sleep, facing the door on the pillow with my mouth open just slightly. The hall light spilled onto my face, and he just stood there. I got wetter. When he shut the door behind him and moved towards me, I could hear his heavy breathing, and I could hear something else. Arnold was jerking off, just standing there watching me. I pretended to rustle in my sleep, and he came over and stood right next to my face.

His finger groped into my open mouth and gently, slowly opened it wide. He carefully slipped the head of his dick in between my lips and started to tenderly fuck my mouth, holding his cock and breathing faster. I just laid there pretending to sleep. He stopped, pulled his dick out, then took the sheet off of me and began to touch me. I moved a little, and he froze, just as if he really didn't want to wake me up. I felt him gradually put his weight onto the bed, and I was thoroughly molested for a good 15 minutes.

He fingered me just a little, then pulled my shirt up and came all over my pussy and my stomach. I didn't 'wake up,' and he just left me there with the cum. He walked out of the room to go to sleep in his own bed. It was as close as I had gotten to this thing, this indescribable energy I sought. Thank you, Arnold.

I rubbed his cum all over my tits, and I masturbated. It was a good one. I passed out, and was woken up at 3:30 in the morning by a notification on my phone.

My eyes were bleary. What time was it? I got my phone and looked at the notification. My dad had 'liked' a pic on my Instagram feed. I opened Instagram to see what he had written or 'liked' or whatever—recently I had posted a couple pics of his visit, and I assumed he had 'liked' one of those, probably the really goofy group selfie I posted of the four of us walking on the beach at sunset.

I was wrong.

At 3:30 in the morning, my dad had 'liked' a pic of me from early last summer, a pic I had posted of me, wet, wearing an incredibly skimpy green string bikini. The pic wasn't really my style back then, and friends had something to say about it when I had posted it. I had posted that pic at the beginning of that first summer, hoping to maybe snare some beach guys in my enthusiasm and eagerness when I had first arrived for my second summer in Cape May.

While I do post frequently on IG, I'm not one of those fucking people who spend all day just scrolling away on their phones. I'm a post-and-put-away kind of person. I do post a lot, though—a lot a lot. I post pictures of all kinds of things, including myself. I sat there in the darkness that night scrolling and scrolling through my feed to see how far back that pic was. I had to scroll for a long, long time.

What had happened to my dad was a certain phenomenon all IG users are familiar with, especially hot girls—the accidental 'like,' deep back in someone's feed. It indicated a kind of stalkerish pic-viewing session that someone didn't want you to know about, and it indicated they had basically tripped over themselves and set off the alarms. Looking at the pic again, I scrolled through who had 'liked' it, and just as I thought, his 'like' was no longer listed. It was even worse now—he had 'liked' and then un-'liked' it right away.

He didn't want me to know that he was looking at it.

Now, let's speak to reason. My dad had just had a heart-to-heart with us about missing people being in the house. Dan, my younger brother—then 18—was almost always at his girlfriend's apartment near Columbia University in Manhattan, and my dad was just alone out there in Mahwah. I'm sure he was dating, but he missed family. A lot of them took to The Shore and Cape Cod for the summer. I got that. What probably happened was that he couldn't sleep, and he did what a lot of us do now—just endlessly scroll in bed, keeping yourself up. He had been scrolling through my feed because he missed me, and he felt lonely, and he had just slipped his thumb or something. It happens, right?

The sex show, however, got one paranoid hand around my neck in that quiet, dark moment and slapped my face over and over and over again with its own fucking awful image.

I pictured my father sitting in the dark of his room, naked, masturbating to my wet skin and my tits nearly popping out of the tiny green bikini, huffing and sweating with his tongue hanging out of his mouth. His thumb gripped the screen too hard and he accidentally 'liked' the pic. He panicked, un-'liked' it, waited for a minute with bated breath, then got back to his little night activity.

In minutes, I was out the front door of Arnold's place and into my car. I drove back to my Aunt's and Uncle's, yanked Aunt Mo's bottle of Smirnoff vodka out of the freezer, and drank glass after glass on the deck, just gulping down the smooth cold medicine. The old Russian thought purifier. The memory weapon.

Kill it.

Kill it with fire.

I woke up the next morning as hungover as Ukrainians, and I... had kind of actually successfully killed the fucking thing. I remembered bits of Arnold's new game, and I hangoverishly melded that fucking awful image I'd had with some white noise and placed it neatly into the denial box. We all have one of those.

Towards the very end of the summer, that last week in Cape May before classes at Hofstra started back up again, I had sex with two men for the first time. To be completely honest, I know I've painted myself as this mega-slut with no end in sight to her appetites, but more than one guy just didn't do it for me. The 'spitroasting' thing is—just like lesbian sex—hot to watch and think about, but in the moment I'm just waiting for it to be over.

I want attention. I want to be focused on. I want to drive a man's mind into primordial mush with my sexual power. The power. I wanted something close to what Keith did to me, and what Arnold did with me. I don't want to be shared, even now. It's just not hot to me.

It was sad to say goodbye to some of the girls, since they were turning 22 soon and wouldn't be brought back—Danielle and Vincent only hire girls who are between 18 and 21 when they come over in May. Their clients like us young, though I'm pretty sure they miss a lot of the older girls. During the winter, I wouldn't work for them. What I had thought that summer was that it would just be a summer thing, and during the school year I would be a student and get back to a normal life. No problem.

When I left, it quickly dawned on me that I didn't want a normal life anymore, I wanted to get fucked for money by nice (excluding Keith), rich men.

What I learned the hard way that September and October was that I wasn't really a prostitute. Let me explain.

D&V employed 28 girls that summer—26 Ukrainians, another Ukrainian-born girl who came from somewhere in Greece, and me. We had 26 clients, including Keith, who a lot of the girls wouldn't work with. It was a closed group. Our cozy world was a members-only prostitution club with rules, relationships, and reliability. We counted on the trust that everyone gave each other, and except for Keith, it was a comfortable joyride completely devoid of fear and stress. It was all fun and all elegance. A big ol' par-tay.

The real world outside of a group like that is a roulette wheel of new faces, unknown personalities, and possible danger. In September, a few weeks after school started, I had to have some again—I had to fuck for money, and I had to fuck someone older, not another student. I researched online and found a reputable-ish site, and joined. The requests dumped into my account message box in hours.

This is why I write that I wasn't a real prostitute. I was naive, and within a few clients I was done with independent work for a while. There was no protection, no trust, and although the first client had been nice, it had been boring, he had gotten embarrassed, and neither of us had any fun. The next two guys freaked me out. They pushed for things that went outside of our agreed limits, and the second guy actually just started pissing on me. I threw most of his money onto the floor and stormed out, and I vowed to stay away from that life until I could skip back into my fun summer world of client-friends, funny awesome Ukrainian babes, and beaches.

Jules called me up a few times just to check in on me, but in the winter he lived in Florida. I didn't see him again until the following May, in 2017. My libido filled up. It was primed to explode. I dated a few guys near campus from Tinder, trying to see if any of them wanted to just fuck, and only two did! Isn't Tinder supposed to be just for that? Those two sucked. Then, one guy sent me dick pics out of the clear blue, and I thought—jackpot. But the guy just wanted to talk about himself, and then he just wanted a blowjob in his gross high black socks. Dic pick bros—I mean, just... just don't.

In early November of that year I called Vincent and asked him if he could put me in touch with any clients who lived on Long Island. I was even willing to drive to Connecticut, or north New Jersey. Nothing. Turns out, these clients of ours were exceptionally rich, mostly retired people (which I knew), and those kinds of people didn't mess around with winter in the Northeast.

Thanksgiving basically sucked, and Christmas was just okay—Christmas can't really suck—except I did get to buy my dad, my brother, and a bunch of our extended family a shit ton of great presents, and that was awesome. Little Colleen was mysteriously loaded for a 19-year-old, eh fam? Hehehe.

The notification incident stayed right out in front of me when my dad was around, right smack between us like a virtual monolith. I gave him lighter hugs than usual, and I put up some walls. I only went back for Christmas Eve and Christmas Day, then went back to school early 'to study.' I spent New Year's Eve at an alright party with some nutty high school friends in the Hamptons, and saw a few older, probably rich men (see: Hamptons) out on the street before I got there. Could I just get out of the car and proposition them? I was losing it.