I Slept With My Dad

I Slept With My Dad
A Facebook user named Lala Bala has taken to her Facebook page to reveal that she has been sleeping with her father and ha never regretted doing so.
The post seems to be disturbing because it is considered as incest to many.
A beautiful lady has made a very
alarming post on social media and users can’t stop talking.
The lady known as Lala Bala on Facebook shocked Facebook users after she revealed that she has had countless se.xual affairs with her biological father.
According to Lala, she began
sleeping with her father when she was 9 years old and does not have any regrets
so far.
Lala Bala stated that her father
has been her ‘Hobby’ all these years and quizzed fans why she should go in for
a boyfriend when her father gives provides her with all her needs, physically,
financially and emotionally.
The post seems to be disturbing because it is considered as incest to many.
The photo of the lady, Lala Bala can be seen below.
“ Sleeping with my father has been my hobby….
I have been sleeping with him since I was 9 and I have never regretted it…
He gives it to me exactly the way I want it…
Is there any need for me to marry another man? “
16th Street, 2nd Avenue, Batsona Community 18 Tema, Ghana
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I am a 17-year-old girl in grade 11 with an unusual problem.
I basically live in boarding school as my parents are always away on business. I only get to see them during school holidays when they’re in the country.
The last time I was home, I was alone in the house with my dad. We really had a good time.
I felt sexually attracted to him. I went into his bedroom that night and seduced him and we ended up having sex. I have a boyfriend but I’m more sexually attracted to my dad.
He has told me I’m sweeter than my mum in the bedroom.
It sounds like you and your mum’s husband have developed a toxic relationship.
As an adult, he should have known better than to allow this to become what it is.
When your mum discovers this it will hurt the relationship you share with her. Your mum’s husband is taking sexual advantage of you.
This can have long-lasting effects on you and the romantic relationships you hope to have into in future.
Therapy can help you understand and channel these feelings into healthy ones so you can have a normal life.
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Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/1591075-The-Night-I-Slept-with-My-Father
Rated: XGC · Short Story · Erotica · # 1591075
A young woman and her father try to cope with the death of their mother and wife.
Created: August 14th, 2009 at 9:31 am
Modified: August 14th, 2009 at 9:31 am

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It was cold at the funeral. The leaves dropped like dead flies. A few landed on her coffin. It suddenly looked like Halloween: orange leaves laid against a dark wooden box. My father stood silent beside me. His eyes were red-rimmed, yet I had never seen him cry. He had been in this state of almost-crying for a week now. Good for him; I hadn’t shed a tear, and my eyes were nowhere near red. No, not even pink.

I didn’t feel guilty. Death didn’t scare me; talking about it didn’t bother me. Death wasn’t sad, it was just natural. I was young when I knew that I would never cry at anyone’s funeral. Not a friend’s, not a grandparent’s. Not even my mother’s. And I was right.

It was my mother’s funeral and my second cousin’s sister’s mother-in-law was crying harder than I was. Even the dogs howled their mourning, sniffing forlornly at the edges of the sinking casket as it was lowered into the earth.

I didn’t miss her. I wasn’t sad. All I could feel was a bland acceptance. To be honest, I hardly knew her. All I was sure of was that she loved to talk, and she would never shut up. On long drives, she would keep rambling on and on in the car, not knowing that everyone else had fallen asleep. She’d never notice.

I loved the quiet and she loved to talk. I didn’t miss her.

The soil thudded onto her coffin wetly. It had started to drizzle, and black umbrellas – perfect for solemn times like this – popped open one by one. From the sky, I imagined, it would look like a large black canvas had materialized across the grass.

I gripped my umbrella tightly, studying my dark gloves, shimmering in places where the pale sunlight hit them. I had no other gloves. The ones I was wearing were for dinner parties. They were itchy and I couldn’t wait to take them off.

*

I was home. And I couldn’t remember what had happened after my gloves. I remembered thinking how pretty the raindrops looked as they made sinewy trails of water on the windows of our black limousine, but that was all.

I stood on my bare feet in the middle of my room. I took my gloves off and threw them in some dark corner in my closet. I scratched furiously up and down my arms, irritated that my father had forced me to wear gloves even if it wasn’t too cold out. He’d insisted. He’d told me my mother had loved it when I wore those gloves. She’d bought them for me from Spain. She had loved Spain. That was another thing I knew about her.

My father said I looked more like her everyday, and that the gloves – elbow-length – made us look like twins if she had been a few decades younger. Because my mother’s favorite accessory had been gloves. It was strange how she loved them so much. I recall a faint memory of her telling me it had made her feel like a movie star when she was little, that she had grown attached to the way they looked, the way they felt, on her pale arms. To me, it felt constricting. As if my arms had been wrapped in gauze.

*

Dinner that night was quiet. It was to be expected. My father and I had said nothing to each other since we got home. I could hear the dogs in the corner. They whined occasionally. They licked their paws, eating up the mud that had accumulated between their black-padded toes.

A ringing started in my ears, punctured by the sharp sound the forks and spoons made on our plates. Each sound seemed magnified. My ears felt like they were being continuously stabbed.

Finally, my father spoke. The ringing stopped. The clanging stopped.

“You’re not eating much.”

The silence was awkward. I didn’t know what to say.

My father cleared his throat. “You looked nice today. At the funeral.”

“It was kind of warm.”

“Because of the gloves. I know you didn’t want to wear them. I’m glad you did.”

“It was pointless.”

My father drew a deep breath. “I’m sure your mother appreciated it. She loved the way they looked on you.”

“Mom’s dead.” The two words grew huge in the silence. The room seemed to darken, the lights to dim.

My father nudged his temples. I had started a headache in his skull.

“What would you want me to have said?”

“Nothing.” His head shook once, slowly. Left to right.

“Not nothing. Never nothing. What would you want me to have said?” My voice was louder. It was growing, feeding off of what it found inside me. Whatever it could grasp. “It only makes sense. It only – ”

“You are… so stubborn. So insensitive.” From my father, it came out an angry shout. “I ask you this one thing – ”

I was annoyed. That’s all I was, but I was shaking. I looked like I was furious. But I only felt a shallow annoyance. I burst, without warning: “How come something negative about someone only becomes endearing after their dead?”

My father shifted in his chair, blinked, and looked at me. I couldn’t stop. Not now – not anymore.

“Why not just tell them you love their stubbornness, or their hot-headedness while their alive? So they actually know that you love them for who they are. Why is that? Is it just politeness? You don’t want to speak ill of the dead because they might haunt you? Because they’re dead? Is that it?”

“What – what are you saying, sweetheart?” My father was confused, surprised. He had been angry then called me sweetheart. I saw him flinch: he was also hurt. I couldn’t blame him; I was, too. I was all the things my father was. But I had started, and it was too late to stop now. My father wanted – needed – an explanation.

“I heard you at the funeral.” My hands were fists. The utensils dug into my palm, cold and hard and unrelenting. “I heard you say how much you loved how Mom was just so messy, Dad. I heard you, and you said you loved that about her. Well then how come when she was alive you’d yell at her for it, huh? You’d get into fights all the time because she just wouldn’t clean up her crap. Can you tell me why that is, Dad? Were you just faking for the people at the funeral? Were you afraid that Grandpa and Grandma would be horrified that you’d dare to insult their daughter at her own funeral? You were just lying, then, Dad. You were lying to that whole bunch of people.”

I was crying. I could feel it on my face. I could feel the tears and they felt strange. My hand shook when I wiped them away. They had already dried up on my cold skin, a meek straggle of tears.

My father took my hand. I stared at our fingers, the way they were laced: his fingers short and stubby, mine abnormally long – mine like my mother’s. His hand felt familiar. We used to walk like this – fingers laced – when we went to the mall, or the park, or the gas station to fill up the car. Anywhere. It seemed wrong to do it now. It seemed too relaxed. Like we were too calm, acting too normal. I could feel our pulses racing together, neck and neck.

“I’m sorry, Dad.”

“I’m sorry, too. It’s just that… I loved her. Very much.”

“I know. I love her, too – can’t help but.”

That was all I could say. Like at the funeral, I clammed up. I was at a loss. My mother’s was the first funeral I’d gone to. My mother was the first death I’d been alive to go through. I hadn’t cried at the funeral, but I had cried soon after.

I looked up at my father. Looked into his almost-crying eyes. I wondered if he ever did cry. “Can I sleep with you tonight? We could stay up and talk about her if you like.”

My father nodded silently. He almost smiled, but this wasn’t a time for smiling.

*

I could hear my father breathing. He was awake. His breaths were irregular: sometimes fast, sometimes slow, sometimes not there at all. I knew he was still thinking about her. For him, it would be hard to forget. It would be hard to fall asleep.

I tried to comfort him. I pulled myself next to him, lay my head on his shoulder, and curled my arm across his stomach, the way my mother used to hug him. His belly was soft and fleshy. He had just eaten but it felt like his stomach was empty.

His breathing stopped completely, and he froze. I guess for him it was awkward. I had never been an affectionate daughter. I had never hugged him like this. Or maybe it just reminded him too much of my mother.

I understood where he was coming from. But, all the same, it stung: tonight was when I needed him. I kissed him on the cheek and slowly pulled away. We lay a foot apart on the bed, and the only sounds were the two of us breathing, trying to fall asleep, to escape the awkwardness.

I turned on my side and faced away from him, closing my eyes. I opened them after what felt like hours. I couldn’t sleep. Neither could my father. He usually snored – big, monstrous snores that could keep people in the next room awake. The night was painfully silent. A buzzing began in my ears and it was deafening.

I felt my father stir and the bed shifted. I could feel the heat from his body at my back. He had moved closer. Maybe he would try to make up for his stiffness earlier. I could sense his arm stretching out behind me, to pull me into an embrace.

He stopped. His hand fell heavily on my arm and he gave it a quick squeeze. He wasn’t ready.

I felt tears in my eyes as he pulled away. I didn’t know why I was crying so soon after I had stopped. I tried my best to conceal it. I sniffed as quietly as I could. I pressed my face into the pillow.

My arms were moving. They wrapped themselves across my chest. I felt my cold hands digging into my shoulders. I had no control over my limbs. It felt like my body knew I needed comfort, and was compensating for its absence.

I closed my eyes again. When I opened them, it was morning.

*

I was in my room. A picture of my mother was in my hands, and a scene was forming in my head. A bright and blinding scene that made my eyes tear and burn.

My mother and father were fighting, and soon we were on the bus – me, my mother, and her pills. The cap went off as soon as we sat down and she downed one, two. I saw her long neck stretch and move as she swallowed. She had taken another two that morning. Before the yelling, before the storming out.

She took my hand in both of hers, pressing it to her forehead. She breathed slowly, and then more slowly.

I didn’t wonder where we were going. I didn’t ask this time, because I knew. It was always the same place: “Asias.” My mother told me, though I didn’t need to know. “Asias Hotel – same place as always, dear.”

I nodded. I didn’t answer. I was mad at her. For taking me with her, for leaving my father, without asking me who I wanted to stay with. I felt my anger boil over and I yanked my hand away from hers.

She sighed: she was used to this. She often brought me with her; I often got angry. “You know I’d never leave you there. With him.”

You don’t know what’s best, I wanted to say. You’re too clouded by your anger to think straight. I remained silent across the narrow aisle. Talking would never work: if I talked, my mother would talk. And she wouldn’t stop. Like water spilling from a broken dam, her words were never ending.

My eyes were closed, my lids pressed against cool window glass. I was soothed. I was calmed. I felt guilty for pulling away – I knew how it hurt to be pulled away from. I turned over to face her, to look in her eyes as I apologized.

A deep-sounding moan, like a deafening foghorn, pierced through the sound of smoothly rotating wheels. Then came the brightness. I saw my mother: her silhouette wrapped in pristine whiteness – heavenly whitenes
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