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I rounded the top of the stairs at the hallway and there sat my daughter at the computer table, beaming. Without further intro Brittany declared excitedly: "Oh daddy this is wonderful! All these pics of you in women’s underwear?"
I felt myself turning white. A few steps earlier and I might’ve toppled over backwards down the staircase in a faint.
"I wasn’t snooping," Britt said in her weak defense. "I was just poking around on your computer. I saw this pic folder and opened it and-"
"Brittany you shouldn’t be looking at those," I insisted impotently, in the best tradition of Whatever you do, don’t think about a white elephant! On the screen in front of me—in front of both of us—was a frontal view of a tall, slender man with shaved body seen from the shoulders down. The body was naked aside from panties and thigh-highs. The bikini panties were French-cut style with scalloped-lace waistband. They rose to the hips, and were black. As were the matching pair of lace-topped thigh-highs.
"That is you?" Brittany asked semi-rhetorically. Then: "Of course it is. That’s your body. I’ve seen it a thousand times in the pool. Besides, that’s the upstairs bathroom in the background. The doorway anyway. Are these all selfies?"
First thought that popped into my head: Masturbation. I turned white again. "What?"
"Selfie pics? Did you take all these yourself?"
I muttered something. Something incomprehensible, that is. Britt glanced back at the semi-naked body on the screen, still beaming.
"Wow! You look great, daddy! I wish I had legs like that! How long have you been dressing?"
I was sweating. It was a chilly night. Late September. I hadn’t fired up the central heating yet. But at the moment it might as well have been 100 degrees in Havana.
"Um…A few years," I muttered.
"Hunh?"
"A few years now."
"That’s awesome!" my daughter exulted. "I’m so proud of you?"
Why, I wondered. I wanted to crawl into the nearest hole. Or into the bottom of the hallway closet like my pathologically shy cat, Basmati. Baz for short. Little prick!
"So you were dressing while you and mom were still together," Brittany deduced. "Did she know about it? Are those," glancing back at the monitor, "her panties? They’re definitely not her stockings. Where did you get such tall stockings?"
No, no and…no. Or yes. My head was spinning. There was not a second chair so, in camel-like stages, I knelt. And immediately regretted it. Now it would look like I was nuzzling in on my daughter’s violation of my privacy. Becoming a co-conspirator so to speak. Hey, babe, if you like these pics check THIS one out! Let me have the mouse…
"Hunh?"
"Hunh what?" I asked, with a head shake.
"Is that why mom left you? She found out you were gay?"
"I’m not gay."
Brittany blew exasperation through flared nostrils. "OK, bi then. A crossdresser."
"She didn’t know about it."
"You sure, daddy?" Britt’s confident smile returning. It was my turn to blow air.
"Your mother left me because she fell for that Air f***e colonel asshole. And she ran off with him."
"No but I mean…Is that why she started seeing other men? Because you…?"
"What?"
"Were going over to the other side?"
"You make it sound like death, Brittany. The river Styx."
My daughter frowned. "The rock group? That was way before my time." Then came the engulfment. Britt’s sideways lunge landed my face in the valley between her breasts, loose C-cups under an oversized football jersey. Number 19, I think. Somehow, in the suddenness of it all, my right hand landed on my daughter’s bare right thigh, while my counterbalancing left grasped ass. Brittany’s left cheek, pantied under the shirt. I raised my hand higher as she squeezed and said:
"I’m so proud of you, daddy! Coming out like this! Exploring your feminine side!" She pulled back. A little. "Do you ever dress in public?"
"Um, no," my response muffled by the flanking flesh mountains.
"Cause we could go out. I know a club."
"No!"
"Where do you shop?"
"Um. Online."
"We can go shopping together!"
I pulled back. Frantically. "No way, Brittany!" I said to my pushy twenty-something daughter. "I’m not walking around in the lingerie section of some department store having you-"
"No!" Britt protested. "Online! I’ll pick some nice things out for you to wear," her wide ass resettling its satisfied self on the ergonomic chair, our bodies completely—thankfully—parted. Brittany’s nose wrinkled. "These panties, daddy," flipping through the slideshow. "are kinda old-fashioned."
"I’m old-fashioned," I declared. Britt laughed. She tousled my hair. As if instead of being twice her age I was half it. Or less.
"What brand are they?"
"Olgas. Sometimes I could do without the lace but…they fit like a dream."
"They do fit you well." A little giggle escaped Britt’s lips. "Your balls aren’t even sticking out."
"That’s a major consideration," I added, smiling for the first time during this latest father-daughter debacle. "Besides, there’s not much to stick out."
The back of Britt’s right hand thumped my chest, nearly knocking me shoulders over heels. "Remember that, like, year-long study I did in college? In grad school? My thesis? Where I proved, sort of, that there really is a correlation between testicle size and, um, manliness? In quotes? The old stereotype?"
"Vaguely," I sighed. Must we discuss such things?
"Anyway, out of, like, a sample size of nearly one hundred guys, I showed that there was a likelihood of, like, over 65 percent that men with larger balls—I won’t bore you with the measurement criteria right now—would be engaged in traditional ‘manly’ activities," Britt making quote marks in midair, "like varsity athletics, cheerleading, driving-"
"Cheerleading?" I frowned.
Britt gave me an exasperated look. "It’s gymnastics, dad. It’s a sport. Apropos, I also conclusively proved that this cut across all sexual orientation lines. Ball size has nothing to do with whether you’re gay or straight or…Holy Christ."
As Brittany talked, and talked, her finger kept u*********sly clicking the mouse. And now the slideshow had brought us to one of the pantyless pics in my embarrassing collection. Perhaps I should’ve named the sub-folder something other than XXX? Like…Accounting Records? In this pic the slender man was down on his hands and knees on the tile. His shaved white ass faced the camera—or rather the mirror the iPad hiding his face collected the reverse image in. His ass was spread wide, revealing the base of the flesh-colored (African-American flesh, that is) butt-plug buried deep within. Below that his little clump of articulated and semi-distended shaved balls hung.
"Holy Christ, daddy," my daughter repeated. Her mouth remaining open afterwards. I stabbed for the mouse. She yanked it away. "No! Is that you? Of course it’s you. That’s our bathroom wallpaper." She looked down at me.
"Who are these pictures for?"
I shrugged. Technically a half-shrug.
"Do you send them to other men?"
It was tantamount to extracting a tooth…but I finally, reluctantly nodded. My frowning daughter exploded with joy.
"Do you dress up for other men?"
If you’re going to drown anyway, why not take a salty gulp. Speed the process up. "Sometimes," I admitted.
"Have sex with them?"
"Sometimes."
"What kinds of sex?"
Another shrug. "You know."
"But you’re the girl?"
I nodded. Brittany bounced on the chair and clapped hands together. "Oh this is SO awesome, daddy! I’m so proud of you!"
Again: Why? Brittany frowned down at me. I was still on my knees. Like a supplicant. She wagged a motherly finger.
"You practice safe sex?"
"Always," I lied, thinking of all the semen that’d been pumped deep in me by countless anonymous bare cocks over the past few years.
"That’s so awesome!" my daughter again clapped. "I have loads of condoms if you need any. Left over, you know, from gathering empirical data for my Masters’ thesis. The guy I’m fucking right now? He’s healthy as a proverbial horse."
Trojan horse for some reason creeping into my mind. I winced. Ducked, rather.
Brittany clicked the mouse and my embarrassing butt-plug ass-pic disappeared. Replaced by something even worse: Internet Explorer.
"Let’s go panty shopping!"