My father is an edible sugary substance, and I seek to consume him. To taste bitter, saccharine, my tongue as it licks at his wounded thigh.
Why is my father consumable, why do I make him so? The sharp glide of his dripping toffee cock, as it both enters me and gives me my fatherly form.
With an intense hunger I suck, lick and bite as he slowly dissolves in my mouth. Does this ritual allow him to reside inside me, where he can simultaneously protect and inform my very being. I am him when he is inside me, inside my stomach, delicious rock-hard candy. The girl-child eating, eating, eating into her adulthood that reeks of her mother, and being alone with daddy is the only way to keep her at bay.
When I talk about Daddy, I don’t always mean Daddy, I mean you, him, a lover – a dream lover. Why do you take it so literally? I talk about my desire to be like him, to possess his power instead of my mothers. To wield a penis in my hands as if it is my own. For him to enter me, I am talking about my discovery of my own body, and the penis that lies between my legs when I masturbate, as I fuck myself in my tight little pussy. Sometimes it’s not always tight, when it gets slippery, I can feel it expanding and sometimes I wonder how it feels to you. Does it mirror the bucket cunt of my own disgusting imagination. I wonder if other people have to think revolting thoughts in order to get off, or is there something intrinsically flawed within mine.
And when I sought the daddy in your arms, like a broken bird under a wing of safety. Under the great expanse of your comforting embrace, where I felt small and safe, as I sought and scoured for a way to return or remain in the place of little girl. But be careful what you wish for, for now you have become him. Like a gigantic reincarnation of my father, and when that happens I cannot bear to fuck you. I want to scream and run away for it is as if I am caught under the claustrophobic encapture of a woolen jumper held over my breathing face. As you scold and chastise me, I am at once 13 again. Greasy and sweaty with an impending desire to revolt and gallop. Always in the wrong, on constant tip-toe for fear of causing grief. I would hide and sneak in order not to be seen, keep quiet as if I was never there. And I am doing it again, like I’m trapped in a younger echo of myself and I cannot break the spell. Sometimes the same words spill out of your mouth, the exact same words that were spoken to me 19 years ago, it’s like I’m in the room with a memory. Am I mad? Is this real, why do these things echo?
Images: Saccharine, 2013, Lo Liddell. Photo credit: 69