Emasculation:The Father Son Story You’ve Never Heard (I Hope)
By Jeffrey A. Boyer
I start the evening sitting at my favorite bar sucking down beers to numb myself from the recurring verbal abuse from my father. The overly testosterone ridden macho son of a bitch never resisted any moment to question my manhood. His favorite tongue-lashings include the advice to “man up”, go “balls out”, or “go find some strange”. My personal favorite is the ever classic “be good, but if you can’t be good then name the kid after me”.
His definition of manhood erects from the number of sexual conquests a man can claim. If you can count the number of women slept with on your fingers and toes then you are deficient in your manhood both literally and figuratively. Under 10 and you’re still a virgin. Under 20 makes you a nice guy. My father mocks nice guys. Under 30 means you’re a wuss. My father hates a wuss. My father considers me a wussy nice guy virgin.
His number is 96. No, sorry. It’s 97 as of last week. It’s hard to believe that 97 different women would consent to bumping uglies with this guy. Women always say they want a nice guy, yet my dad scored with 97 different women. 97!
Just once, I wish I could muster the nerve to ask him how many of those 97 conquests ever asked for seconds. That might melt his macho facade. Well, I suppose my mother was one of those women who encountered him with a certain repetition. After all, I have two brothers, but perhaps she viewed sex as a wifely obligation rather than an inspired moment of passion. Gross. Why am I thinking about this? This is my mother.
It is true that I’ve been sexually involved with very few women, but most of those special moments with those special women occurred more than one time so take that dad. I want meaningful relationships, he wants meaningless sex. Sex is better with a loved one rather than from a love of sex. Women are not the personal dumping ground for your expelled fluids. Women are temples to be cherished, and loved, and romanced, and equal partners in matters of personal spillage. What my dad does is no more than masturbation with a real woman rather than a worn out sock. Sock sex is what he does. Old wrinkly worn out live sock sex.
At this moment I hear a clinking sound followed by the sensation of cold liquid lubricating my shirt. Immediately there is an apology in the air, an arm around my shoulder, something soft pressing into the side of my face, with another arm reaching across me wiping up the discharged liquid.
All I see is red. The red of a skintight dress forming around perfect breasts. That red dress ending at a thong line. Those perfectly firm thighs leading to diamond cutting calves. Two words flash in my mind: eye contact. What eyes they are; a deep green pool of sensual luminosity.
A small part of me wishes that drink had spilled in my lap. Beside me is the most gorgeous woman I ever encountered. Where I was completely alone in my thoughts with only guy bartenders to serve me, now, there she is.
It takes only a few minutes of conversation for me to discover she is a wonderful blend of liberated and traditional woman who seems to know all the angles. She can follow a conversation or lead it. A confident woman who doesn’t need a man to support her in everyday life but supports the man she loves every time. The kind of woman who will feed you chicken soup when you don’t feel well then give you a blowjob to make you feel better. Of course, her exotic dark hair, hypnotizing green eyes, and the toned, perfect body doesn’t hurt. I’m fairly certain she could rub out any guy’s political persuasion.
In no time at all, she is inviting me to her motel room. The short walk from the bar to her motel convinces me that our earlier discussion was the chicken soup leading to me feeling so much better. Her grabbing my ass and boxing my tonsils with her tongue is a pretty good sign as well.
What a crazy and improbable night. So many ups and downs in both the metaphorical and literal sense. She came along at the perfect time. Well, I think she came. Of course, she did. Who could fake so well? And, let me tell you, I am good.
Very good considering that Kim, my girlfriend of three years, dumped me last week. Her only reason was she had things to do. Very good indeed if I say so myself. Stud like some people might say, though who am I to blow on my own horn.
Even my father could not do better. As terrible a thought that is, that is my thought. The macho bastard thinks he’s so great the way he’s always mocking me. A few hours ago my father is branding me a sissy. “Go get your fingers wet” he said to me. And I did. And much more. I am a man. I am THE man!
She interrupts my mental celebratory lap by informing me that I fuck nothing like my father. Perhaps not all the blood has returned to my head yet because she could not have said what I thought I heard. After all, how could she have the information necessary for a basis of comparison. Proximity is not the issue as we lay in bed together, her head on my shoulder. I even check for earwax.
I ask her to repeat what she said hoping I’d suddenly suffered from personal mondogreen like hearing Jimi Hendrix say he wants to kiss some guy rather than kiss the sky. That is not to be the case. She did, in fact, inform me that I fuck nothing like my father. This is not information I need to know. Who even wants to know their father is now, has been, or will be a sexual being beyond the fact that it is his sexual performance that helped create you.
She ponders if sexual technique is genetic. As if the x and y chromosome combination might predetermine how a persons sexual gymnastics manifest. Sexuality may be genetic. Sexual orientation may be genetic, too. I doubt whether smashing strawberries on someones ass with an oversize spatula relates to genetics. She is genuinely confused by my confused look which genuinely confuses me.
Turns out they have a regular thing. They meet on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and have breakfast on Saturday. Ask a question get an answer even if its hits you like a large polo mallet full of horse manure. That this goddess of a woman attaches herself to my father as his latest conquest amazes me to no end. The only logical conclusion is that penis size is not genetic either. Obviously, he is a bigger dick than me. Although, I regret using the word conquest. Girlfriend is a more diplomatic and polite term.
A fairly sadistic thought entered my mind with a little too much enthusiasm for my comfort level. The idea that this woman who volunteered with a high degree of enthusiasm to explore every inch of my body before permitting me to do likewise to her is, in fact, cheating on my father with me. As corrupt a thought as it is, there’s a certain validation to the act. She found me at the bar. She seduced me. She invited me back to her motel room. She threw the red dress with matching thong and bra to the floor. She chose, or rather demanded we give each other the gift of multiple orgasms. Our love making really brought the animal out in her. She is a lioness on the hunt. I am her lion king. Still, I smiled at the punch in the gut this would be to my dad if he found out I fucked his girlfriend.
She laughs at the word girlfriend. Laughs a few moments longer than is necessary I think. The look on my face must signal my discomfort because she kisses me on the neck, calls me a sexy mother fucker, then explains it is strictly sex with my father. Technically, no one is cheating on anyone since there is no established commitment between the consenting parties. Slightly disappointing I admit.
Still, three times a week mechanical, anonymous sex between her and my father. She describes his chatty nature after intercourse. Being chatty is the last thing I considered my father engaging in after a round of coitus with any woman. He seems more that thank you and see your way out type of person before heading to the shower to wash the smell of the affair from his wrinkled body.
I hear about the picture of me on his nightstand leading to a conversation about the entire breakup with Kim. Every detail of the breakup repeated in every humiliating, depressing detail. Why my father tells this woman about my personal life is beyond my comprehension. Luckily, the conversation is cut short when she reminds him that talk or no talk she had to return to work. The ending to this story is obvious – they fuck (her word).
A coy smile spreads her lips as if some epiphany coalesces in her consciousness. Some light turns on as she reaches out to pinch my cheeks. My actions, or words or emotions remind her of my fathers suspicion that I am a very sensitive person in denial about being gay. Somehow I confirm this for her. Where once I pumped my ego with the description of stud, she deflates me completely by describing me as a nice guy. Again, with the nice guy thing. The last thing I desire is to be called a nice guy. It’s tantamount to describing a woman as having a nice personality. Who needs that? Worse is her new nickname for me; Mr. Sensitive. Mr. Sensitive is the guy forever locked in the friendship zone. She may as well describe me as a wussy nice guy virgin who needed to man up.
I collapse on the bed covering my eyes with my arms and stomping my feet into the mattress in as an adult manner as I can muster for this particular moment. Disbelief is too weak a word to adequately describe the anger and embarrassment at his blather. What did I expect? My father is a complete dick.
In the ‘more information no son need know about his father’, she tells me he’s not hurting in that area before entertaining the idea that size may also not be genetic. I tune out about the time she mentions needing extra lube before he could penetrate her.
What is innocent trash talk to her feels too close to the rubbing of my fathers’ degenerate advice. Kim and I never engaged in trash talk as I respected Kim too much for such patronizing wordplay. Kim is a sweet wonderful person which is most of our problem though I am quite disinterested in explaining the apparent contradiction to her. The look on her face told me my new nickname now tattooed to her impression of me.
I didn’t have to explain the apparent contradiction being made aware that my father thinks a great deal on Kim. My blood boils. Of all the bastardly things I expect from my father, hitting on my girlfriend is beyond the pale. His very actions may have placed Kim in the impossible position of breaking up with me to run far away from my fathers unsolicited advances. The poor girl. Did my father really think he could seduce Kim into being number 98?
The absoluteness in this woman’s’ voice as she calms me is reassuring. Kim did not break up with me because of my father hitting on her. Despite my impression of him, he really isn’t the kind of man to fuck his sons girlfriend. He has boundaries. At least I can keep the memory of her unadulterated from his promiscuous Viagra fueled libido.
The absoluteness in her voice then turned deadpan recalling all bets were off after Kim did break up with me. As if that fact is some conciliation to the idea of my father hitting on Kim. But no. It is not my father making advances on Kim. Kim seduced my father.
Kim is number 97. Kim dumped me so she could sex-up my father. Kim volunteered and actively sought being number 97. Noisy little fuckers is how she describes the interaction of the love of my life with the man who helped give me life from his loins. Those same loins now making Kim feel like a real woman.
As if this information is not enough, she lets me in on a secret. Seems Kim makes her feel like a real woman as well. Saying this while chuckling to herself is not helpful.
Everything previously swollen, including my ego, goes limp.
Kim dumped me so she could fuck my father and feel like a real woman. Well, the issue must be hers because I just proved my sexual abilities. Obviously, Kim is going through some strange experimental phase in her life, so our breakup could not be my fault.
Confirming my sexual prowess she asks for more. She comes back for seconds of me. I knew it. I knew I was good. Fuck Kim. Fuck my father. I am a real man. I even make her repeat herself as I wanted her to beg a bit. Suddenly there are options. It makes no difference to her if we talk, fuck, eat, or shit. Whatever I want to do to run out the clock.
Run out the clock? Those four words strike me in a very specific way. I try to deny them. Consider any other possible meaning to them. Perhaps she is a football fan, or maybe she is on some dinner break from work. I thought she liked me. She seduced me. This is special; a once in a lifetime chance encounter. The reason for my good fortune becomes obvious. She’s a prostitute, although she prefers being thought of as a paid stranger with benefits. Amazing benefits to be sure, but we didn’t agree to remuneration for a benefits package. There was never any mention of exchanging anything but fluids.
My father pre-paid for this. Gave her a good tip, too.
So Kim broke up with me to fuck my father. My father is not only great in bed but hung like porn star centaur. The goddess of a woman I traded fluids with is a prostitute who my father paid to seduce me because he thinks I might discover I’m homosexual while at the same time sleeping with my ex who only now feels like a real woman.
I have only one question. An extraordinarily important question whose answer could save this day.
She looks impatient.
Here goes. The all-important question. The salvaging of my dignity. I ask her how I am in bed.
She crinkles her face in deep thought. Very concentrated I think. She’s really thinking about it. Why does she have to think about it? She bobs her head from side to side, eyes to the ceiling searching for the right word.
How embarrassing. I’m about to receive adjudication on my sexual performance by a prostitute. Well, I guess she’d know. What am I thinking? This is horrible.
Finally she has an answer.
Concentrated is her word. Very concentrated; emphasis on the word very. She gives me points for effort, then offers to show me a few tricks. I have no interest to see photographs of her other patrons. Certainly not if one of them is my father.
I realize my failing when she recasts the word ‘tricks’ to ‘pointers’. She is not offering a photographic slideshow of her other patrons, but rather an introductory course in the fundamentals of carnal knowledge. Her hands referenced particular points of interest as her finger slips between my lips, then down to the area where her drink did not spill. She even offers an interactive demonstration so she can ‘finish’ suggesting it only fair since I did.
She faked her orgasm. She faked all three of them.
A buzzing emanating from inside her purse breaks the moment. Rifling through its contents pulling out condoms, makeup, pepper spray, feathers until she finds her phone. Her face glows with a smile as she reads text.
Round two quickly moves from sure thing to tentative with each piece of clothing returning her exquisite body to definitely not happening. Her attention has already left the room as she files the strewn contents of her purse back to their place. Since my father paid for this time, she feels no guilt about leaving me hanging. Turns out, he’s horny and is calling in the rest of the time. Kim has this fantasy about making her into a living chocolate sundae complete with whipped cream and cherries. A reverse therapist falls flat reminding her that our time is not up. Without thinking, I am putting my clothes back on even picking up an eyelash curler that fell to the floor. Suddenly, my little engine that could did not want to any longer.
There is nothing I can do, nothing I can say. The entirety of this magical night is an illusion predicated on a fantasy wrapped up in my father’s credit card. So I play the only card I have left. I offer to wait in her motel room until the sugarfest with my father is over.
She tells me it’s not her place. It’s more of a business expenses and I am expected to pay for the room, because she has to go home to wash her hair after the whole chocolate sundae thing is over.
Grabbing a pen and paper out of the motel desk drawer, she scribbles something on it before handing me the paper while pushing me out the door. There is a phone number on it with the name Jamie.
It occurs to me that I don’t know her name, so to have her name and phone number is quite encouraging and thrilling. I tell Jamie that I’ll call her later to get together. Her pace across the parking lot does not slow. She hollers back to me she’s not Jamie, but I should call the number because Jamie is down on her luck due to certain medical conditions and really needs the business.
She waves to a limo turning into the parking lot.
Every explicative lines my tongue, every hostile feeling conflagrant; every moment of every insult boiling my blood. This is the final straw. It is my time to have the final say in something. This is my moment. And so my final words to not Jamie before her legs swing into the backseat of the limo burst forth in thunderous explosions. I demand not Jamie say hello to dad and Kim for me, then go to the office to pay for the room.