Your Dad

"What's the hurry, son?"

Your dad's baritone voice had always intimidated you, and now with this book, this source of fantastical perversion in your hands, you can't help but feel it doubly. He wasn't a hard man, but he wasn't a fool, either. When you would try to get away with something that you knew he wouldn't approve of, he always seemed to find a way to get it out of you. Your hands began to sweat.

"I, uh, just wanted to check out a book I got from the library," you stammer, hoping to avoid lying.

"Must be some book," he said, a smile in his voice that didn't quite reach his eyes. You look up from your perch on the corner of your bed at the large moustached man. He is leaning on the door frame appraising you, "What's it about?"

You quickly close the book before he can see the content.

"Just some weird fantasy stuff," you answer him, "like for playing D and D."

"You still into that?" he said, crossing his beefy arms, a bad sign, "I haven't seen you play that since middle school."

"Steve and I were thinking of getting back into it."

"Read me something," he said, not having it, "Let me hear one."

You can feel sweat pouring down your back as you open the book to a random page near the middle. The words are gibberish, but you place your finger on a phrase and sound it out.

"Klabtuneagh thrungush rapting Hubberiatona Blanerisho."

The book sends a static shock through your hands, causing you to drop it to the floor, losing your page. You look up at your father, hoping that the demonstration is enough, hoping that he will drop it and leave you alone. Only it isn't your father that you see in the doorway.

Well, in a way it is. Your dad's head is still there, crew cut, moustache, the works. Below that it's an entirely different story. Gone are your dad's beefy arms. Gone is your dad's trademark khaki pants. Gone is the polo shirt with your father's plumbing supply store logo on the pocket.

Below your dad's head is the body of what you could only describe as the porn version of a school girl, plucked straight from your fantasies. Huge breasts. Long legs. Thigh high stockings. Plaid pleated skirt.

Your penis twitched.

"Weird stuff," he said in his baritone voice, "dinner's on in fifteen. Come down with your hands washed." Then he turned and left.

"Oh shit," was all you could say.