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Daddy's first time

funny short story: daddy's first time


Hal’s pupils were like ebony dinner plates as he moved his slack-jawed gaze over the pink atrocity that was the feminine hygiene aisle of the local supermarket.

How had it come to this? How in the name of Odin was this his life?

It was only natural, to be sure. Different phases of life followed one another like pages in a flip book as every human being crawls their way towards the grave. It shouldn’t be a big deal. Hal should be mentally prepared for this.

Yet for all the biological horrors he had endured raising a daughter for twelve years, still he was unprepared for the masked menace of sterile white cotton and undefinable scents and perfumes.

There had been the time Jessica had chipped her tooth on the playground and screamed like a damaged Vietnam vet all the way to the emergency dentist. There had been diarrhea in four star restaurants and vomit on elegant relatives. His precious princess had given him pinkeye, at one point, and there had been, of course, the endless litany of poopy diapers.

Hal, surprisingly found himself longing for the days of decimated cream corn as he surveyed the seemingly endless wall of soft cotton maxi-pads and pearled tampons. Even though Hal had been engaged with the fairer sex for nearly three decades at this point, he had never been comfortable in this aisle. It felt like stepping foot into Isis’ perfumed garden. He was not welcome, as the venomous eyes of menstrual women told him.

But his baby girl had just gotten her first period and Sarah, his wife, was at home doing the whole, “You’re a woman now,” treatment. It was on him to go out and get the pads and the chocolate ice cream, maybe renting a copy of Bridget Jones’ Diary on the way home.

Slim? Super long? Winged? Hal found himself visualizing the size and shape of his daughter’s panties and a visible shudder passed through his body. Maybe he should just go with tampons? There were just as many options, and Hal literally threw up in his mouth a little bit as his mind, unbidden, tried to conjure an image of the little-girl-who-used-to-fall-asleep-on-his-chest’s cervix.

Hal decided, definitively, that:

1. He would go with the pads.

2. He would remove the hands of anyone who ever tried to insert anything, for any reason, even medicinal, into his precious innocent angel.

Somewhat placated with the image of hook-handed teenage suitors, Hal returned to surveying the sanitary packaging. Maybe he would just go with a label that looked like his daughter? She was thin and athletic. At least he could rule out the super-wides, which were the same size as his Aunt Mathilda’s knickers.

He settled on a “slim and trim brand for the always active woman” and tucked the pillowy package under his arm. Even though women do this every single month, he was utterly convinced that this qualified him for Father Of The Year.

J. Simpson is attempting the unlikely - mastering three disparate traditions of music, criticism, and writing in one lifetime. He lives in an old wooden house with a black cat and the love of his life in Portland, Or. He makes dreamy folk/trip-hop with his mate, Lily H. Valentine, in the band Meta Pinnacle and solo electronic noise under the name Dessicant. His main pursuit and labor of love is Forestpunk, where he writes about the intersection of horror, magick, music, art, and culture.

http://forestpunk.wordpress.com
http://www.twitter.com/for3stpunk
https://www.pinterest.com/for3stpunk/
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