My Girlfriend Was Hot for My Dad

Emily was my kind of hot. She wore baseball caps over her brown ponytail, t-shirts and lacrosse shorts. She had an athletic body from playing soccer year round and cussed often. With her Italian olive skin, she was definitely my kind of girl. After two months of fooling around with minor grinding and groping, I knew I was on the verge of getting laid. She just wanted a sign of good faith to let her know I was with her, exclusively. So I took her to meet my folks, a big step in her opinion.

Emily said she was nervous when we pulled up the drive. I wasn't worried. My parents loved meeting my girlfriends. They loved to flirt and cuddle in front of them. This worked wonders for me. The appearance of loving parents married 30 years meant some of that magic had rubbed off on me, or so went my philosophy. Unfortunately, we were a little early and Mom's car was gone. I assumed she went to pick up some food and possibly beer or wine. I hoped liquor: get Emily fed, get her drunk, then get her to my apartment and get her pants off.

The house seemed empty. I called for Dad, but he must have left with Mom. So I took Emily for a tour. The room I grew up in, how cute, my sister's room. We were standing at the end of the hallway looking at family photos when my dad opened the bathroom door.

Neighbors' wives and all my high school girlfriends called my father handsome. At 53 he looked 30. No receding hairline, no potbelly. Quite the opposite. Woody was a fitness fanatic. He competed in those old-man Iron Man competitions, raced mountain bikes and lifted four times a week. Mom called him her Brick Shithouse, and that's what he was. People liked to kid us. "What happened?" they asked when we stood next to each other. We were the same height, but that was as far as the similarities went. Woody was a full 30 pounds stronger than I was. His jawline was wide and finely outlined. His hair was jet black, his eyes ocean blue. I hadn't met a woman who failed to comment on his eyes. The guys from the gym joked that if you put your ear up to the old bastard's sixpack you could hear it hardening.

As he stood ass naked and dripping wet from the shower in the hallway, Emily appreciated the part I forgot to mention, his legendary oak. Not only was he ripped, the man was hung like John Holmes. I hit puberty at 21. You could have called me pigeon-chested, if you felt like being nice. At the Emily phase I still wasn't shaving. My leg hair was just changing to black from clear fuzz.

All this worried me because Emily was two years older and used to mature men. She was perfect and I had to nail her.

My father was shameless. He nodded at my presence and Emily's gaping mouth as he strode into his room with his lumber swaying between his legs. We went to the kitchen and sat on the stools silently; Emily burst into giggles and then covered her face with her hand and looked away from me. I heard my mother come in the front door. My father came down the stairs and they laughed their asses off.

Dinner went okay, considering. Not a word about The Cock Incident. I said two words the entire time. Emily got on famously with my parents. She told my father, very flirtatiously, that he had a great name. My mother looked at my dad with a shit-eating grin and said, "Thank the girl, honey."

Back at my place Emily was hyper-horny. My mood sucked, but it was bone time. Emily went to the bathroom. I heard the shower. I started thinking of how awkward it was to disrobe in front of someone for the first time. I looked like a 10-year-old. Usually people didn't even look at each other, they got into to bed quickly and commenced. That's how I'd hoped it would be.

When Emily came out of the bathroom dripping wet, completely naked and laughing, she asked if she was bringing up bad memories from my parents' house. I laughed and started taking off my clothes. Nude in the bright light of my Brooklyn apartment, nothing was on my mind; just a vacant stare and a smile.

She, however, looked like she just opened a Christmas present she hoped was diamonds, but got socks. Nevertheless, we turned out the light and got to it. She put her hand on my stomach. "It's flat, at least," she said. Sounding slightly pissed. "Did you ever think about working out with your father?" she asked in a flat tone that was completely unsexual. She was losing interest.

"Well, my dad was actually a late bloomer, like me," I started to explain, but she interrupted me with a sarcastic "Uh-huh." Strike two. "Well, let's not talk." She kissed me passionately, almost sympathetically.

Everything could have been right for sex, but my mind was dwelling on the undeniable likelihood that Emily was thinking about my father. If there was one more mention of Dad, she was taking the bus.

That was before she took me inside her. Then she arched her back and let out a whimper...along with "Woody!"

She bit her lip, giggled and apologized. I said it was no problem, pumped until completion, then kicked her out.

I never saw her again. A month later I was at my parents' when I picked up the phone. The person on the other end hung up.

Technology doesn't lie. The bitch's name was on the caller ID.