The Curling Iron (or: how my daughter’s friend and I seduced each other), Part 1. [MF] [First Person]

“*Really?*” I repeat to myself, pacing around obsessively enough to set the floor on fire. “*Are you really becoming that guy?*” It’s not long before all that mental energy is redirected to wiping this stupid—and increasingly perverted—grin off my face.

I’m failing. Hard.

She’s coming over. She’ll be bringing those strawberry blonde curls, those green eyes that I can already feel piercing my soul, that silky porcelain skin, and the leggings that cling to those curves practically engineered to make my heart burst out of my chest. Never mind what they do to everything *below* my chest.

“Repeat after me”, I whisper to myself, scoffing between every word at how corny I must sound. “She’s 18—that’s legal. You’re 42—that’s *creepy*.”

And, of course, what makes it so fun. The chase, with a whole lotta taboo on the side—neither of which I’m allowed to indulge. But it’s too late. I’m officially that guy. The guy attracted to his daughter’s friends.

And, of all times, during the summer before college. I’m praying that my self-awareness—of the laughable cliché that this situation is—can overpower the shakiness hitting my legs the minute I hear the doorbell ring. I take a deep breath. I turn to the kitchen table and start to fumble around, looking for the curling iron she left at last night’s sleepover. She’s here to pick it up.

I forget that it’s not there. It’s not there because I hid it and tried to forget where it was. Like “losing” a $20 bill in your room and having it turn up in your winter coat months later. Anything to keep her here a little bit longer.

I open the door.

“Hi Theresa, come on in!” Mission already failed. She’s wearing the leggings. Her hair is braided. Her eyes, obviously, are still green. My professional “dad” voice gives way to my professional “I’d give anything to be inside you” voice before the sentence even ends.

“Hello!!”, she replies, apparently not noticing. “Sorry again for the inconvenience. They make, like, a million of these things—and I know I could’ve gotten one at the Walgreen’s down the block. It’s just that the guy working the register today is a little, uh…”

“A little too friendly?” I ask, smirking.

“I guess you know the drill”, she shoots right back, followed by a smirk of her own.

*Abort, abort.* This is so wrong. I can’t do it. Go to Plan B.

“Hey”, I quickly interject. “I should apologize for my own inconvenience. I meant to call Lydia before you got here…I managed to misplace the thing that *you* managed to misplace! Lydia has an older curling iron that I can lend you—that way, we don’t have to waste time looking for it.

Actually, you know what? Keep it. Like you said, they make a million of these things anyway.”

“Aw, thank you”, she replies. And, barely missing a beat: “It’s a shame they only make one of you.”

*Fuck*. Why did she say that? All the blood rushes from my head to…well, basically everywhere that’s not my head. But come on. She was just being friendly. Right?

“Well, uh…there’s plenty of me to go around!” I manage to squeak out, my eyes darting anywhere they can. Not even a second passes by before they’re fixed on those endless legs, enveloped in black. They start scanning the gorgeous hourglass figure in front of me. Then they start scanning the room—like it’s filled with the eyes of a thousand people, all equally disgusted at me.

I start heading to the bathroom.

My guard hasn’t been let down, but it’s shaky as hell. I start to think: what’s so creepy about this anyway? She’s not my daughter’s *best* friend or anything. Lydia herself called her more of an acquaintance. I only met her recently—it’s not like I was creepily watching and waiting for her to “develop” all this time. I’ve known her *only* as an 18-year-old. And I’m looking at her *only* as an 18-year-old right now.

I regain my composure on my way back from the bathroom.

“Have fun at the show tonight”, I smile, handing her the iron. “Don’t be one of those people who records the entire concert on their phone or anything.”

She giggles. “Don’t worry, I’ll just be taking pictures. But I’ll be sure to use lots of flash! I hear bands enjoy that kind of thing.”

I start laughing. Way harder than I should be.

“Goddamn kids!” I jokingly bark out. “Be sure to stay off my lawn on your way out.”

Now she’s laughing. And way harder than she should be, too. Her body’s shaking—only from the laughter, but shaking nonetheless. I’m in absolute agony.

“Alright, you better get going”, I continue, gesturing to the door. As she’s leaving, I almost forget to do the responsible parent thing and ask her to remind my daughter of her curfew.

“Oh, and be sure to tell Lydia—“

My train of thought is obliterated the second she turns around and starts to walk out the door. Those perfect curves finally meet my eye and are instantly burned into my brain. As I predicted. As I wanted. As I tried to resist at the last moment. As I’m failing to resist at this very moment.

She stops. She turns her head, but with her back still facing me. The combination of that hourglass figure and those piercing green eyes both looking at me renders me completely powerless. My eyes are anywhere but looking at hers, before they quickly readjust.

“Um…did you want me to tell Lydia something?”

“No”, I answer, walking up to her. Both hands immediately grab her waist and I bury my face in her neck. “Don’t tell her a goddamn thing.”

I lift her up and fasten her legs around my waist.

“We…need to go…to the bedroom…now…” she whispers into my ear, sighing and gasping between every word as I kiss and bite her neck, stumbling around like a drunk with her body clinging to mine, her hands starting to undo my belt.

“The bedroom. Good idea”, I whisper back.

Because that’s where I left the curling iron, after all.

Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/c09t9u/the_curling_iron_or_how_my_daughters_friend_and_i