Sexual experience of Priya-1

This story is about a father and daughter having sexual relations. First, she got custody of Priya, our four-year-old daughter, I got one day a month visitation; she got the house, I got the mortgage payments; she got the bank account so that she could provide for our daughter; I lost the technical-writing business I spent six years building. To top it, my once-monthly visits were often “postponed” or “forgotten” when my wife felt that I hadn’t groveled enough. Finally, two years after the divorce, during a particularly ugly confrontation with her current boyfriend on a visitation weekend, Bess looked me straight in the eye and told me that if I darkened her door again, she would report that I had molested Jenny during visitation.

I talked to my lawyer (a nice guy, even when my money ran out) and he said there wasn’t much I could do without a war chest of cash. In our state even a whisper of abuse was enough to buy me a trip to the Greybar hotel, until I could prove that I was innocent. I gave up, moved to the West Coast and started over, writing anything to keep myself alive and make support payments. Hack SF, true romance, soft porn, lonely-hearts advice columns, you name it. After a couple of years I started free-lancing some advertising copy work for a local agency. It was steady money, and I moved into a house without cockroach roommates. My lawyer met my wife’s lawyer over racketball at the club and I started flying back to visit my daughter on her birthdays. Some women came and went in my life, but after Bess I couldn’t trust any of them.

All this time I wrote my daughter regularly. When I had enough money that so that I didn’t have to dodge the landlord, I’d send her small gifts every couple of weeks. There was usually one good reason a month to send a card or trinket to my special girl and if there wasn’t, I’d invent one. She wrote back. At first her letters were in crayon, with kindergarten pictures of stick-people, and thank-you notes for each gift. Her artwork covered one wall of the spare bedroom that I used as a home office. As she grew her letters became more literate. Her favorite gifts were books and I sent her the ones I had enjoyed as a young: “Alice in Wonderland”, “Jungle Book”, “The Hobbit”, “Treasure Island”. She rarely mentioned her mother in her letters or during our once-yearly meetings; I never encouraged resentment towards Bess. But on her tenth birthday, Bess and I fought again, Bess barred me from further visits, and Priya’s letters closed, “Please come visit me, daddy, or let me visit you. I know you love me, but I get REAL LONELY.”

As years went by, my financial situation improved. I made a couple of smart (lucky) investments, and began to do major accounts work for the ad agency. The agency was contracted to do some mud-slinging ads for the 1982 governor’s race and bitterness seemed easy to write. The incumbent stayed in office, but the state party was impressed by how my ads had withered his support among undecided voters. I was introduced to some movers-and-shakers in state politics and asked by the state’s party secretary to do some speech-writing for some junior members of the state house. The speeches went over well and sound bites wound up on the CBS Evening News. I was caught up in the machinery of state politics. I felt ambivalent about my work. It was fun to be an ‘insider,’ but the more I wrote, the weaker became my own political views. I had become a student of Machiavelli. Politics became an drug that deadened my ethical nerve endings.

One day, early in the summer of 1986, I got a call from Delhi, from the congresswoman of a nearby district. “We’ve heard your work, John, and we like it very much.” I gave the usual thanks and asked what I could do for her. “The polls are showing that Senator B__ has lost a lot of public confidence with the news that his company has been dumping toxic waste. The party thinks this may be the time to for an all-out effort to unseat him. I think it’s time for me to try it. The national committee suggested I talk to you about some speeches. You know, really slam him to the sidewalk and see how high he bounces.”

I was flabbergasted. This was a jump from the state to the national scene. Senatorial races are very profitable for the right people. A major jump in income and prestige. Book and consulting contracts, even an ambassadorship cha-chaed in my brain pan. “I am very interested in pursuing this,” I said “When can we meet?” We set up a get-acquainted dinner with her staff the next Wednesday evening. I gulped when I heard the name of the restaurant, but she chuckled and spoke those magic words: “It’s paid out of campaign funds.” It was about to rain soup and all I needed was to bring a bowl. A big bowl.

It was that Wednesday morning, as I was about to leave to pick up my best suit from the cleaners, that I got the call from my ex-wife.

“Niraj, I’ve got this wonderful opportunity to go to Mumbai, so you’ll have to take Priya.” Better and better news, I thought, I hadn’t seen my daughter in four years.

“Sure. When and for how long?”

“I don’t know how long, Sunny didn’t say.” Great, I thought, another jerk. God knows how these creeps have affected my daughter. Well, Bess always wanted to visit Europe. I couldn’t have afforded it. If she wanted to travel there on her back, that was none of my business. “The summer, surely, a year, maybe. Priya’s flight is today at noon.”

“A year? That’s impossible, I’m afraid. And today is no go, I have an important dinner tonight…”

Her voice picked up a nasty edge. “You can meet your bimbos some other time. Your daughter needs you. We’re at the airport now.”

Well, that took a lot of gall, calling me at the last minute. I kept my voice calm and tried to be reasonable. “Look, I’ll pay the difference in the ticket costs for the delay. Just put her on tomorrow’s flight.”

“You don’t understand. We’re all at the airport. Sunny’s and my plane for Mumbai takes off an hour after hers. You’ve always whined that you wanted more time with her. She’ll land there in three hours. Be there to pick her up.”

“But I’ve made plans! It’s too late to cancel them!” And that’s where the conversation went to screams. Mumbai. She waited until the very last second before telling me anything. How could she have known I would cave in? She knew. I knew. I always caved in. Shit.

After hanging up I called the congresswoman’s Washington office. “I’m sorry,” the clerk’s voice trilled with unfelt sympathy, “She’s on a flight back to her home district and is unavailable.” Well that killed that. No way to cancel or postpone the dinner. I had better pick up my suit.

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