Author: KindaColdUpHere

The path from the kitchen to the bedroom is an obstacle course. Every step of the way, a piece of clothing hits the ground with the most satisfying *thud*. A scarf. A shoe. A bracelet. Another shoe. And then my belt.

We pause and give each other the wildest grins as we officially cross the point of no return.

Carrying her with those legs still fastened around my waist, her hands clawing at my back, those strawberry blonde curls tickling my neck, and our lips fused together, we navigate this minefield, stumble into my room, and finally collapse onto the bed.

I’m dizzy from the glee, from the smell of her perfume, from the sight of that porcelain skin becoming more flushed by the second. She straddles me as my hands find their way into her blouse and start to explore that silky skin I’ve always dreamed of.

“How long have you wanted this?” she asks me, breathily.

“Longer than you can fucking imagine”, I respond.

But before that final switch is flipped and my morals are turned off for good, the last functioning brain cell lights up. I wince from this interruption to my soul. But I manage to get the words out: Read more »

“*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. Read more »