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The Time I Had Sex While Her Father Was In The Same Room

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Last December, a few days after the holidays, I laid on a sunken couch in my then girlfriend’s townhouse, watching precious hours slip by with her insufferable family — hours that could have been spent on the opposite end of the Keystone State, draining a gallon of Old Crow and a case of cheap, out-of-season beer with the rest of my chapter. One of her family members had suddenly fallen ill and I had to drive her across the state on 20 minutes notice. But I was a good sport and acted as such.

Her relative passed, and the service was scheduled a few days later. Our last night in Philly approached, and my ex’s semi-estranged and affluent father made the trek from the northern corner of the state down to Philly to pay his respects. I met the man once before and he was a perfect gentleman to me. But for some reason, my ex still exhibited classic signs of daddy issues.

Even though the man paid all of her tuition, most of her bills, gave her a car and paid the lion’s share of her $1,200 per month rent, she still resented the man as though he’d walked out of her life in kindergarten and resurfaced 16 years later with a new family, asking for a loan to bail his girlfriend out of jail. She referred to him by first name and that’s a big red flag.

The night before the service, my ex’s dad booked us a hotel room nearby so we wouldn’t have to return to the sad, cramped townhouse a few miles south. That night, after a late dinner and a few drinks, we headed back to the hotel. The room had two queen beds, and in a baffling move of blind trust, my ex’s dad gave us his blessing to share one of the queen beds. Our beds were mere feet apart, so I’m sure he figured we wouldn’t try anything risqué.

He underestimated how much his daughter hated him.

He dimmed the lights and, within ten minutes, was sawing logs in the adjacent bed as his daughter sat up, preparing a eulogy for the next day’s service. She finished, turned out the remaining lights and laid back down.

I got comfortable and felt myself drifting off to sleep when I felt her wrap her leg around me from behind and begin making some all-too-familiar moves. First, she put a hand on my shoulder and kissed the back of my neck. Then, she began pulling my shoulder towards her and the middle of the bed.

As she became increasingly physical, I thought, She can’t be serious. Her dad’s asleep not even four feet from me and he’s facing us. Before I could grasp the notion that she wanted to fuck in the same room as her father, I felt my sweats being tugged as the comforter began to rise next to me. I rolled to face her as she took hold of me with both hands. She willed me into arousal as I lay, frozen in petrifying fear of her dad hearing the rustling and waking to some gland-to-gland combat.

She was doing all the work as my heartbeat approached critical. She slipped out of her pink shorts, adjusted her positioning and initiated the encounter. I held her still for a moment, as I paused to listen for her dad’s breathing. His snores had died to just deep breaths, making the experience all the more terrifying and exhilarating.

For the next ten minutes, though it felt like hours, we tiptoed through the quietest, yet most thrilling and dangerous sex to ever grace the sheets of a hotel bed, pausing every other minute to sound check the rich man’s snoring.

Finally, I passed my point of no return and tried tapping her shoulder, as though I was Andrew Luck changing a protection scheme, urging her to lay off on the backward thrusts from our off-center spooning positioning. Not only did she ignore my plea, she pressed on with increasing voracity — she wanted some icing on the fuck-you cake she was already baking her sleeping father. My carnal nature overcame me with mortifying force and I couldn’t pull away in time.

Not a drop hit the sheets.

We both came down from the love-making in muffled pants, almost certain we would wake the sleeping man. I scoured the sheets with both sets of toes for my sweats as she crept to the bathroom. For a moment, I laid among the damp sheets, heart still hitting like a ten lb. sledge. The gravity of our little session continued to wash over me. I wondered if her dad had awoken at any point. I wondered what the fuck I’d say to him the next morning if he confronted me. I even felt some remorse. This man trusted me to stay with his daughter in a room he booked, and here I lay, panting in the next bed, coming down from the most exhilarating sex of my life.

Even though I’ll never see the man again, I still feel bad. I’m not saying I feel bad for what I did. I don’t regret a single move I made. I feel for how much his daughter must despise him to hate-fuck her boyfriend while he slept a few feet away. And I should be grateful that I’m no longer enveloped in that tempest of crazy. She didn’t even let me pull out. Sometimes I think my betrayal of her father’s trust was sleazy and unbecoming of me.

Then I remember just how amazing that ten minutes was.

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Kramer Smash

Unabashed Pitt alum with an affinity for brown girls and Manhattans. Send lovelies to

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