1624 dont judge me but you will anyway oh well

It’s difficult to masturbate about your father, but not impossible, as it turns out.

By the time I decided to try it my chest had already unclenched. Not from crying, but because I removed myself from the interrogation that had brought it on and did tactile things; washed dishes, opened a Newcastle, put a beach towel down on the patio.

By the time I took off my clothes and lay down on the terrycloth, I had emotionally estranged myself from whatever it was that had brought about the tangle of emotions that tight-roped somewhere between sex and fear. I just wanted to make myself interact with the outside world, even if it was just fresh air and the sound of birds and lawnmowers.

The sun was hot on my skin but not too hot. Every time I lay out under the sky wearing really only nothing it makes me horny. I think there’s something about the sun on skin that’s normally hidden. Maybe the receptors there are more sensitive to the rays or something. I don’t know. Whatever. But

that’s when the challenge to masturbate about my dad came back into my mind and I thought, let’s me give science a chance here.

I started as I always do, licking my fingertips and moving them south and then in small up and down motions, circular, up and down, circular, circular, up and down, up and down, I

cleared my mind and then

thought about my dad.

I tried.

I tried and tried and tried.

And while images of him came and went, my clit wasn’t responding and my brain couldn’t keep an image of my dad long enough for me to even get an image to generate a scenario to hold on to.

After a long while the images started to come easier, but they were fleeting. My dad was younger. His skin tight and tan, his hair black. There was a lot more of it. His chest hairs were not gray. He had his clothes off. He was holding his dick. I was a little girl. I was naked. I was tan. My dad’s face. Again and again. He is naked. We are naked in the swimming pool. He is holding me against him. His dick is bobbing up against my bare buttocks. I am still not aroused. My dad lying next to me. We are sideways. We are naked. I am hairless. He is stroking the length of me. My dad’s face. My dad holding his dick. My dad standing in front of me, I am sitting on a toilet, we are naked. He tells me to watch him. My dad lying on his side naked. I am lying on my back naked. He is holding himself. He is looking all over me. He tells me that’s a good girl. He is masturbating. I am getting aroused now. He is masturbating and he is telling me that’s a good girl that’s a good girl that’s a good girl and I am just lying there and then I am back on the toilet again and he is standing in front of me that’s a good girl that’s a good girl and he is jerking off in front of me and I am coming and I came and

I wonder about it all. Why the father that came into my head was so young. The places and positions so specific. Then I think about how much I like watching men masturbate. Then I think, no. I am creating drama in order to justify my perversions. My dad never touched me when I was young. He never did bad things like this. These were things in a perverted writer’s imaginative mind brought on by a prompt. You love your dad. He loves you. It’s made up shit. It’s not any kind of fucked up memories dredged up from some forgotten, deeply buried incidents.

I am pretty positive. I mean, there were other things, but never with my dad. I am pretty positive about that.

I think it is weird that I did this but I think maybe part of me ‘made him’ his younger self because I think if I pictured him how he is now, his old self, that would just be horrible and gross and even weirder. I think doing it to his younger self made it almost like it was someone else. Someone I knew decades ago…which, is true.

He never touched me. I love my dad.