Chapter 10: The Psychiatrist's Daughter

My mother, ever the analyst, said that, in the greatest irony the universe could throw at someone, my stepfather had been dealt a situation beyond belief.

He got into psychiatry to help save people, after seeing his mother’s decay and demise.

And his son, besides being a prick as a kid, turned out okay. Never got in trouble. Works as a gourmet chef for a high-end hotel chain, married a wonderful girl, a scientist, got a condo on the beach in San Diego...

But his daughter, oh my, did she ever have her own decay, and demise.

And, terribly, the saga has continued. Nowadays his granddaughter, Emily, at age 13, as of this writing, has begun her own chapter of misery, already drinking, doing drugs, and cutting herself...

As tragic as this is, somehow I can’t imagine Emily turning out worse than her mother, my stepsister, Sandy. Hell, I really hope she doesn’t.

Sandy was a normal, well-adjusted young girl, until roughly age 13 (definitely an unlucky age, number for this family). It was then she began experimenting with drinking, smoking, and drugs.

She had a line of boyfriends, too. The first I can remember was a muscle-bound dude, of mixed Asian, Black ethnicity, called “Mark.”

I believe he was on steroids.

He and Sandy would constantly fight, be at one another’s throats.

Mark once stormed into my room and offered to pay me five dollars if I informed him about any guys coming by to see Sandy. I wasn’t sure how to reply. I didn’t say anything, and Sandy, blue eyes bulging, burst in and dragged him by his 17-inch biceps back to her room to resume their bickering, and I could hear the murmurs of their screaming bleeding through the walls.

Unsurprisingly, the amorous pair broke up soon after that.

Then there were many other guys, mostly Black guys, including one who was a well-known Miami crack dealer.

Sandy smoked crack a few times, tried other hard drugs, but mostly, in those days, she drank. A lot. Later, she got into heroin, though, bad, and she and her boyfriend of the moment robbed a 7-Eleven at gunpoint, stole a car, and she got locked up in a federal prison for a few years.

It wasn’t her first time locked up. She’d been expelled from several high schools as a teen. Finally, she’d been sent to what was termed a “Level 6” school, after punching a teacher in the face.

It was basically a lockdown facility, a stepdown from juvenile hall. (She’d been locked up in juvenile hall for a short bid too, following her arrest for punching the teacher’s face.)

At the Level 6 facility, this lockdown school for fuckups, she had to live on site, confined to a room with bars on the windows, forced onto medication, and allowed only to leave on holidays or weekends that she “earned.”

She’d occasionally run away from the facility, jumping walls, escaping for a time, to live with boyfriends or friends and party, but would invariably return after a few days of drunken recklessness.

At the school she got in trouble for maiming two boys, at the same time, thrashing them with a steel metal lunch tray, then with her fists and feet. One of the boys was beaten so badly that his nose was broken. The other had his testicles severely damaged after she stomped on them, like a female incarnation of Mike Tyson, stomping on his children... (Though I’m not sure if she bit any ears off... )

The boys, she said, had been trying to sexually harass her, and they were taught a harsh lesson about bothering this particular girl.

After hearing that story, I also learned a lesson that I shouldn’t push her too far, if at all. When she threatened to kill me for calling the cops on her dad, after he’d assaulted me, I could see in her eyes that she meant it. She likely would kill me.

However, unwisely, I pushed my luck with her, one time, later, and had sprayed her a few times, playfully, with a water gun.

She told me to quit, but I didn’t, and she made it clear I should have rethought that.

She snatched the plastic water gun, the toy, from my hands, and raised it like a whip and lashed and thrashed me with it, bashed it at my head, my arms and back, smashing it to bits, its serrated edges slashing, cutting into me as she pummeled my bitch ass that’d huddled up into a curled ball of fear on the floor.

Although I was scared and although it hurt, and I was bloodied, had long, jagged deep cuts on my arms, I did also find it uproariously amusing, laughing the whole time as she beat me. That, then and there, though, was the last time I fucked with her.

I did, growing up, want to fuck with her, in another way.

Albeit violent and crazy, I’ll admit that she was a rather attractive girl.

Okay, I’ll confess it. She was hot. She was a bleach blond, with rosy cheeks, translucent blue eyes, and an oval face. She had a slim figure but a jiggly, shapely ass and succulent thighs and big, firm and pointy, tubular tits.

For a boy coming into puberty, having an older stepsister like that, especially one who banged tons of dudes, dressed slutty, in tight-fitting miniskirts, tons of makeup, yeah, of course I wanted to fuck her and began masturbating furiously to the thought of it.

Would fucking her have been so wrong? She was my stepsister. Not a blood relative. Although later, as I aged and found girlfriends, my thoughts of banging her abated.

There was one time when I felt like I was close to having sex with her, though, for real.

It was, ironically, the same day I lost my virginity.

I’d lost it to this girl at school, Cindy, who was known as the school slut.

She’d been with lots of dudes. Her face was a train wreck, a Pippi Longstocking gone terribly wrong. A horrific ginger face. But her body. Holy fuck. It was incredible. She was half-Black and half-White and got the best of the Black girl body, juicy tits and a healthy, wide, rippling, round ass.

I almost fucked her at this shuttered recreation center that’d later be converted into a writer’s center. My friends and I would go there often, break things, spray-paint the place, and smoke cigarettes. Once we set a bonfire there and nearly burned the place down.

(Someone saw the fire and called the cops. When they showed up, sirens blazing, we tore off running, fast as Usain Bolt. Amazing how police in pursuit, chasing you, enables such superhuman running and athletic ability. We easily outran the fat, mustachioed cops. Disappeared like ghosts into our neighborhood, of which we knew every nook and cranny... )

That old building I’d spray-painted and nearly burned down was also the first spot I smoked weed, and so of course this abandoned, vandalized building was the perfect place to take my date!

I’m not even sure how we wound up getting together. But somehow we’d started talking on the phone, landlines, as this was way before the days of cellphones, texting, online much of anything, and every school published a phonebook, with every student’s name, phone number, and address.

(In reflection, what a fucking stupid thing to do! Especially with what shitbags kids can be! Passing out that personal information ... This was, in essence, virtually asking for prank calls, harassment. Which, yes, I participated in... )

This was also a goldmine for talking to girls. You had everyone’s phone number!

And I guess I must have called the girl, Cindy. Or maybe she called me, because sometimes that’d happen too. Girls would call me, randomly, and we’d talk on the phone, but mostly it was me calling them- I was a slut, too, a slutty boy...

(What a time it was, back before smartphones; when you’d call a girl or whomever and you’d never know if he/she was there, who’d answer.)

However it came about, I was the one to set up a date, I remember that. I’d asked her to come “hang out.” She accepted.

We met at this shopping mall down the street from my house, where I’d hang out at a record store, often, buying lots of tapes.

(Writing this in 2019/2020, I can’t help but feel how dated this is. The early 90s, record stores, tapes, CDs! I had an amazing collection of tapes and CDs, mostly metal and rap... )

We went from the record store, made our way over to the abandoned building, and quickly began making out, and I pulled up her shirt, checked out her tits, cupped them. They were so large, soft, and incredible. So fully and delightfully developed.

I almost tore off the rest of her clothes and fucked her right there, her back propped against that cement wall that I’d covered in graffiti. And I might have really fucked her there if my parents had been home. But they weren’t. So I asked her if she wanted to come to my house. She did. I lived close by, and walking over there, briskly, in silence, and we stepped forward with a tacit understanding, and moved briskly up the stairs to my room.

The second we got in there, we both, on instinct, perhaps, peeled off all our clothes. I’d bought condoms, in anticipation, and next thing I knew, I was mounting her and sticking my dick inside her young, redhaired pussy.