Dear Mister,
I showed up to your house, looking quite the gentleman. I even brought flowers to placate Mom. Your daughter, Stacy, showed me some family photos, and your wife is quite the MILF. You wore a stern, stoic expression, determined to show what a manly protective father you are. I could tell you were a controlling yet spineless prick, that you needed me to cower before you so you wouldn’t feel threatened by me. Mid-conversation, I’d recount one of your daughter’s glorious squirting orgasms in my head, and my eyes would flash with mischievous glee.
But no. I didn’t do that. I know that would set you off with rage. So I played the nice guy. I shook your hand, and gave you a weak handshake. I averted your gaze, and deferred to your authority. I knew that emotionally, you needed me to be a weak, sexless male. If I were anything more, you’d subconsciously suspect your daughter would become a raging whore. Your suspicions are not unfounded, after all – you did raise her.
You, Mr. American Father, are a dime a dozen. You secretly wanted a boy, but you couldn’t even admit that to yourself. So when the ‘he’ you hoped for was a ‘she,’ you figured ‘Hell, there’s no reason I can’t treat her any differently than I would a son. Men and women are equal, after all, no reason it should be any different.’ You got that third party penis envy. You had her playing field hockey when all she wanted as a little girl was to help make dinner and read Mansfield Park.
Her participation in team sports would come in handy later, as she learned to ape her high testosterone teammates. One by one, they taught her to value getting railed by the cool guys at school. It’s like one of those bad reality TV shows, where a woman finds herself vying for a man’s favor, only because there are four other women doing it too. She’s lost her mind to the hive. Invariably, these guys get bored and dumped her. True to form, her friends allay her heartbreak with healthy doses of booze, weed and Instagram attention whoring.
You Never Had The Heart To Say No
With that little cherubic face begging you for the latest Bratz doll, you couldn’t find it in yourself to say no. When your wife started dressing Stacy like a tramp at only eight years old, you wanted to say something, but you stayed silent. The Mrs. was bored after all, and she had started to live vicariously through Stacy, imagining all the male attention and outright dick that her daughter would be getting. She was bored in her sexless marriage, sure, but she saw no reason why she couldn’t live through her daughter.
The reality is that you had two choices with your daughter – you either had to go full Muslim and keep her locked down at all times. Or you could lurch to the other extreme, and instill her with a sense of responsibility as she matured – that she and she alone was responsible for staying out of trouble, that when she screwed up, you wouldn’t come and pickup the pieces.
Instead, you half-assed them both. You said yes to anything your daughter could ask for. You physically could not bear to see her cry, so the moment disaster struck, you’d placate her by telling her, “it’s not your fault,” over and over, as you fixed the mess she made. You were disturbed by female emotion; you felt it was your duty to contain, control and calm it, rather than seeing its ebb and flow as the natural province of the feminine. Her outbursts were like little waves coming to shore, and yet they overpowered your gutless self.
When she needed true direction and firm guidance, you wilted and bought her off with candy instead. Just like how you’d have to buy your wife jewelry just to get your dick sucked. You wanted desperately to be her friend and not her father, so you’d coo to her in a voice that made you sound like a flaming child molester channeling Barney. In your mind, you weren’t ‘Father,’ but ‘Dad,’ the fun guy who takes her to sports games and throws her birthday parties. Patriarchy is a dirty word to you.
Making A Rebel Of A Careful Man’s Careless Daughter
I know you’d throw a fit if you saw me so much as touch your daughter’s hand, so I waited until we all sat down to dinner to make contact. You didn’t notice? Oh, I was fingering her under the table as you were spooning your butternut squash soup. Bitch couldn’t even wait ’til the turkey came out – your penchant for spoiling her means she can’t wait very long. I’m a good guy, so I let up before she could come. I didn’t want her making a big wet mess right at the dinner table. Frustrated, she later asked me why I stopped short, I explained it was out of deference to you. So now she’s a little mad at you over her missed big O. She already blew me in the church pews, so I figured getting digital during dinner with the parents was the next step.
In your head, you’ve got all these violent little fantasies about what you’ll do to me when you discover the depths to which I’ve defiled your daughter. But come on. We both know you’re way too pussy to lay a hand on me. Even if you did, you’d be well on your way to tossing some salad at your local state penitentiary. I’m just sleeping in the bed you set, my heartfelt thanks, bro.
I love how you give her a curfew, as if her pussy only gets wet between the hours of nine to five. Noticed how she’s suddenly been going to the ‘library’ a lot lately? And that she’s hanging out after school with ‘Emma,’ the girl you thought she hated? I don’t need to explain what’s really going on. She’s such a darling, I hardly even need to leave my bedroom to see her.
Your ‘birds and the bees’ talk was crucial to my game. You explained to her what sex was, warning her to stay away from it until you said otherwise. If she did have sex, you told her, the lecher responsible would be swiftly punished, while you would be her emotional tampon support, there to offer your unconditional love. Well, when she found out how amazing it felt, unlike how you described it, she just couldn’t stop gunning for it. She had been bugging me about how all we do is have sex. And due to your little dinner, it’ll be months until she demands that we “go on a real date.” Thanks.
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