I was just puttering around the house per my usual when the phone rang. The phone started ringing. I stared at it like a foreign object. I'd gotten my number on the No Call list way back when the law first went into effect. I was an old guy caught puttering around his house. My phone could go a week without a peep. But not much more than that, because I was one number off from a nearby chain restaurant popular enough to encourage reservations. Usually I politely informed them that they've dialed the wrong number. Though there had been several occasions where the caller had been such an asshole from first word that I'd been more than happy to take the reservation for 12 for an hour hence on a busy Saturday night!

Something like that would put a skip in my step for several days. Sure it's pathetic, but after you hit 40, you live for those little thrills, those puny triumphs. Trust me on this.

At my daughter's insistence, I'd entered this marvelous new age where you didn't have to actually answer the phone. You could listen to who was calling explaining why they were calling. Mostly they were wanting to make a reservation, and mostly going ahead and making them on the tape of my machine.

The machine clicked on. The message began. "Quit pretending you're modern. Like, how many calls a week do you have to screen anyway?"

It was my daughter Christy, so I quickly picked up. "Shut up! I'll have you know that I'm constantly getting calls from Heads of States and Hollywood Actresses. If I didn't screen all of my calls, I'd have to actually talk to those sorry fuckers!"

"Daddy! Language, please!" It was our joke. I was born with a dirty mouth, but I'd kept it well in check once I had a daughter. It became a habit. Though once in awhile I'd spew out some nasty words. When the hammer hits your supporting thumb instead of the nail-head. But Christy, that apple dropped right next to the tree. She often spoke like she'd been raised by pirates. By pirates who'd gotten motherfucking into the OED in adjective status.

"Okay, young wench, why are you calling me?"

At that, Christy got shy. "Uh, well ... things aren't going so hot in my life. I'd really like to, say, come over Saturday, have dinner with my Dad, and talk."

I shrugged even though she couldn't see me. "Bring a pizza, and I'll be all ears."

I could hear a little contented sigh. "I knew you would help me."

"I'm your Dad. I'll always and only ever be here to cherish and try to help you. As long as you remember the pizza."

It was a delight to hear Christy laughing, even if just over the phone.

Come Saturday it was getting perilously close to seven in the evening, and I was getting pretty hungry. I began to realize that I was being stood up by my own daughter. It'd happened before, and I didn't really mind because I didn't much want to hear about what was not-so-hot in her life. Because that always involved her boyfriend of several years.

And let me stand corrected. He wasn't just her boyfriend. Nor was he officially her fiancé. They were engaged-to-be-engaged, a notion so stupid and useless even the French didn't have a term for it. This engaged-to-be-engaged thing was apparently a rather rocky road.

The guy's name was Turk. I'd never ascertained if that was actually on his birth certificate, or just what he'd taken to calling himself. Me, I'd taken to calling him Turd--in secret--because that was exactly what he was. The kind of guy it's best to just wipe after then flush away.

Christy knew I wasn't keen on him, but I'd mostly kept my mouth shut, and was perfectly civil the few times we'd met. It was her life, not mine.

I had food in the house, but my taste buds were tuned in to pizza. But I didn't want to go out of my house to get it. So I was gearing up for the culinary disappointment of delivery. The phone options were the crappy chains that guaranteed delivery in 30 minutes, or they'd throw in the antacid for free.

I flipped through the Yellow Pages, noting down numbers. From there it was like standing in a voting booth, trying to decide which candidate made me want to puke the least. I was rescued from the decision by a knocking on the front door. I half-expected it to be a delivery guy with the wrong address. I'd pay for the pizza, eat a slice, throw the rest in the fridge to toss into the garbage later, while retiring to bed for a night of passionate heartburn.

It was a delight, and disappointment, to find Christy on the porch. She came bearing a big box from the excellent pizzeria in town that tossed the fresh dough in the air and didn't employ drivers. She also had several bottles of a decent red wine, but in the big bottle, which did not bode well. The pizza would be delicious, the glass or two of wine soothing, but then she'd hit her third glass and I'd have to suffer through her complaints about Turk this and Turk that. There wasn't much I could actually say to help; it was a tired old litany that bored the shit out of me. The challenge for me would be to not nod out during the monologue.

The pizza was ace, and the wine not too shabby. We had nice conversations while watching the tube. With her third glass, Christy became immersed in some dumb movie. I was impatient, ready to cut to the chase so I could get that over with, be in my own bed in my quiet house when I was ready to nod out.

I waited for the next commercial break. "Uhm, so what's going on?"

That was enough to get her going. "I think I'm done with Turk. Apparently, in his book, being engaged-to-be-engaged doesn't preclude him from hooking up with other women."

"You mean engaging in sexual intercourse with other women?"

"Shut up, Dad."

"I'm just trying to translate the modern vernacular for my ancient ears. You think you're done with him? Like all the times before when it turned out you weren't?"

"You never liked him!" she accused.

"No, but I never talked trash about him like you do. So why are you here tonight if you want to defend him? I mean, it's always nice having you over, but maybe it's time for you to go home and work out your own compromises."

Christy started tearing up, which was my sign to refill my glass.

"You scented him out as a sleaze right away. Why didn't you say something?" she snuffled.

"Wait," I held my hand up. "You know I've never liked Turk--you just said so. What you don't know is that I secretly call him Turd, because that's exactly what I think he is."

Christy giggled through her sniffles.

"But baby girl, that's your life. You know my opinions, but that's all they are. How can they change anything? is what most people don't understand. It's like watching a horror movie on t.v.--Don't go in that room!!! You can shout at the t.v. all you want, but you can't alter the script--they always go into the bad room."

She nodded, silently, accepting my words of wisdom. She tried to refill her glass, but there was only a splash left. So she stepped boldly into the danger zone of opening the other bottle. Thus refilled, she cheered me. I topped off my glass, reconciled to a fuzzy morrow.

"So what do you want to do, long term? Obviously for tonight I'm taking your keys and granting you the couch."

There was the silence as we both slugged through and refilled our glasses. Eventually Christy looked up from her lowered eyes. "I was wondering if maybe I could move back home while I sort things out. This is a very comfortable couch."

I was ready for that. I'd anticipated the question since her call. It wasn't the first time. I would never say no, but given the generosity of drink, I was giddily agreeable. "Christy, baby," I slurred, "you're welcome to your old room."

"But Mom turned it into her sewing room."

"Well, yea, but it's not like she's not doing much sewing anymore."

That was the unspoken thing. My wife, Christy's mother, had been killed three years back when crashed into by a coked-out cop with a documented history of abuse. The bastard's previous wrist-slaps had won me a huge settlement. I could live off the interest. In the destroyed shell of my former life.

We kept drinking, safely on the couch. Finally, my daughter stated, "But last I looked, aren't you keeping that room as like a shrine? It's still Mom's sewing room. All her stuff is still there."

I shrugged, drunkenly. "I just never go in there. Never had the habit. But not because of that. I don't need the space. I don't have the habit of going in there. Before it was her sewing room it was your bedroom. I never had much reason to even go in the room. But we can clear it out so you can have it again for however long you need." I gave her shoulder an affectionate rub. "Better that than you hogging the couch every night, right?"

I'd been a very good husband. Now, at least, I could be a good father.

"Can you help me move?"

"Sure," I said. "I mean, first we'll need to clear out the room. But then when you're ready I'll rent a truck and we can collect your stuff." It was a passive-aggressive statement on my part. I would agree tonight, and tomorrow she'd go back home, and I'd never have to touch the room, much less get a truck.

"Can we do it tomorrow?"

Well, I nodded, thinking it was the wine talking. I was surprised when Christy sort of sprang across the distance and wrapped me in a tight hug. She kissed my ear, whispering, "Oh, Daddy, you're the best!"

The surprise was compounded as she kept me in the hug. I got uncomfortable, as it'd been three years since I'd felt a full bosom pressed against my chest. I had my arms around her since a hug of one is so awkward. I started lightly patting her back, like soothing a child. "Sounds like we have a full day tomorrow, so we should probably get some sleep, particularly after all this wine. Why don't you go brush your teeth and stuff while I go hunt up some bedding for the couch. You can check the vanity drawers; if there's not a new toothbrush there, feel free to use mine."

I turned the lights down to just the lamp on the endtable. I had the couch dressed in fresh sheets, with a comforter, and a pillow from my bed, when Christy returned from the bathroom. She was still in her short shirt, but carrying her pants. She dropped them by the side of the couch. "I should have brought an overnight bag. I'm sorry. I did have to use your toothbrush." My wife had been a modest woman. I'd never seen a girl walking around waist down in just her panties. I ... I liked the sight, even though it was my adult daughter.

She slid under the covers and I tucked her in, out of sight thus out of mind. "I'm sorry," I said, "I had to give you a pillow from my bed, but I couldn't find a fresh pillowcase."

My daughter looked like a golden goddess, lying in her improvised bed. She sniffed at the pillow. "It smells like you, Daddy--it makes me feel so safe."

I turned off the lamp, leaning down to place a goodnight kiss on her forehead. But in the relative dark of the hall light she shifted and my lips instead met hers. I straightened up, refusing to let it linger. "Mmm," she murmured, "I meant what I said, Dad. You are the best."

I trailed a finger across the tip of her nose. "See you in the morning, sweetheart."

I brushed my teeth with a toothbrush that tasted of my daughter's mouth. I thought to be smart enough to eat a couple of aspirins and slug some cups of water in anticipation of what the morning would otherwise bring. In my room, I stripped and slunk under the sheets. I had a thick erection, which I refused to touch. I didn't set my alarm for the big day ahead of us. I wanted to outsleep the wine-addled confliction in my mind. I focused on how settling it would be to wake late and find Christy up and gone back to Turk. How beautiful it would be to wake up and have everything gone back to normal. I fell asleep while making a note to myself to keep my wine intake to just a glass or two, except maybe on extra special occasions.

I woke up way too early, sort of shocked that I didn't feel too bad. The sun was barely slanting through the window. I tried to roll back over, but after barely five minutes I gave up, grabbed a robe and shrugged it on for decency. I went down the hall to the bathroom and had a long piss. I slugged down some more water, popping another couple aspirins for good measure. I ventured a bit further down the hall to have a peek into the livingroom.

Christy was still sprawled on the sofa, dead to the world, legs asunder. The covers were all awry. Were it not for the stretched fabric of her panties, I would've seen a part of my daughter I shouldn't have even been thinking about viewing. I did stray and look too long. I felt so ashamed I wanted to throw myself under a bus. Instead, I went back to bed, refusing my cock's entreaties until I again fell back asleep.

Hours later I awakened, feeling positively refreshed. I could smell the burn of old coffee overlaid with that of a fresh pot. I strode down the hall to find my daughter absolutely bustling. She greeted me with a big cheery hug. Christy poured me a mug and let me let that settle in before she showed me how she had her old room cleared and ready to go. After my second mug, she announced, "I have a truck reserved for after lunch!"

It was, indeed, going to be a big day. Like it or not.

Where things got weird was when we showed up to fetch her possessions. Turk was home, and Christy obviously hadn't called him with the update. He was, I expect, assuming the same as me: that things would blow over and resume the status quo. He started talking all nasty to my daughter, as though I was just a moving guy along for the ride. Finally I snapped. "Dude, you're fucking other women. What do you need my daughter for? Security? The fall-back option? In case they figure out what a douche bag you are and decide to cut you off?"

Turk got all huffy, but then backed down. Knowing that if it came to it, I could take him easy.

"You always were a Daddy's Girl," he sneered at Christy. That was such bullshit, I replied, "Yea, and you were always a Horse's Ass."

When it came to the bed, which my wife and I had purchased for Christy when she'd moved out of our house, he declared, "This is my bed." It was rumpled and unmade, and obviously still damp from some girl not my daughter. I allowed that concession.

"You made your bed--feel free to sleep in it. And if I ever hear of you again, I will come back and make you hurt."

As long as we had the truck, on the drive back to my house I stopped at a store to spring for a futon couch-bed. Christy worked from home doing Internet stuff I didn't understand. Thus she could wake up in her old bedroom, shunt the bed back into a couch, and then be in her office, without leaving the room.

We unloaded everything back at my house, and then returned the truck. Back home, I helped with moving the heavy items. I began looking forward to a little nap while Christy spent the afternoon arranging her things. The sewing table was still in the room. It was a beast, the kind where the actual sewing machine pushed down so that the table could be an actual table. Christy had effected that transformation earlier that morning. "You want to help me haul this out to the garage?" I asked, hoping to complete my chores. "Get it out of your way while I decide what to do with it later. If nothing else, I'm sure the Salvation Army or somebody would be happy to swing by and take it off my hands."

"You know," my daughter winced, "that's a really expensive model. Mom taught me to sew when I was a little girl; maybe I'll pick it up again sometime. If you don't mind, I'd like to keep it. If we move it over against this wall, it's out of the way. Plus, it's really the perfect size for my printer and peripherals."

There was a large translucent plastic tub filled with unused bolts of fabric. I moved to pick it up and clear it out of the room. "I doubt anyone will want this, but you never know, so I'll stash it in the garage."

Christy immediately reached and grabbed a handle, yanking it from my grip and pulling it across the carpet towards her. It was an odd tug-of-war. The battle won, she sort of shrugged. "I remember Mom always saying it was a crime to throw away good fabric." She maneuvered the tub into the closet. It fit perfectly, like her satisfied look. "I did have one question." She popped the lid and pulled out a piece of a nearly gossamer fabric, a pretty pale blue with delicate vertical white stripes, somewhat sewn but still holding pins. "What's this? It's really lovely."

I looked askant, in silence. "Well," I eventually ventured, "that was a dress shirt she was making me ... that she was working on ... right before..." I decided to lighten the mood, the moment. "I definitely would've had to wear an undershirt with that one."

Christy gave a wan smile, replacing the fabric and snapping the top of the tub down tight.

The tub of fabric wasn't exactly Pandora's box, but I did go off to my room for a little nap thinking about things I didn't want to think about anymore, because I'd thought about them so much already over the past three years. The Widower's Laments. It was not a very satisfying nap. I'd thought I was done with soaking my pillow with my quiet tears.

I was as old as I was, but back in this old hobby store in Chicago that I remember from a vivid memory when I was 5. My own father must have taken me there, but he wasn't around. There was the huge slot-car track, and the air was thick with the whine of small cars racing. There was the scent of electricity and metal and oil so light it looked like maple syrup. The whole scenario made so little sense that I urged myself awake. The racing cars started sounding like a sewing machine, but once I was fully conscious I could hear how Christy was puttering around in her room getting all her computer stuff up and running. It was a noisy job.

I was in the kitchen brewing up the afternoon pot when Christy stepped in the room. Her arms held something behind her back. "Ready for a surprise?" she piped. I nodded in reply. I wasn't big on surprises, but hers had me intrigued.

She flapped her arms and unfurled, holding up against her frame the completed shirt, her mother's unfinished project. It looked beautiful, and I said so.

"Guess sewing is like riding a bike," she gleamed at the compliment.

I reached out to touch the sleeve. It was a pretty, soft fabric. I was touched that she'd completed it for me. I moved to accept the present, but Christy snatched it away. She jutted her chin in triumph. "This is mine," she stated, softening to, "though I love to share."

When evening began, I started thinking about rustling us up something for dinner. I was rummaging around in the fridge, indeed found poking my head inside the freezer, when Christy came in. She pulled me away from the appliance and slammed the two doors.

She kept hold of my hand, swinging our arms in a carefree loop. "I've had a long day, and I'm really tired. Let's go out and bring home some Chinese, eat it like slugs off the coffee table while watching crappy t.v. Sound good to you?"

I paused a beat.

"I'm paying," she added.

"Sounds great," I deadpanned, gripping her hand and pulling her along, while gathering up my keys and wallet. On the drive over to the carry-out, Christy had me stop for some wine. Here we go again, I thought, but then I remembered my resolve from the night before. There is nothing wrong with moderation.

The food was pretty decent. But then we were full. We cleared the plates and put the lunch-tomorrow leftovers in the fridge. Back on the couch, we each nursed our second glass. Everything on t.v. turned really stupid, so my daughter sat up straight and turned to me, poised with her wineglass held mid-air.

"So Dad, tell me about the honey in your life."

"Beg your pardon," I sputtered.

"C'mon, it's been three years. Dish me some details about how you've finally moved on. Is there anyone special? You sure keep things a secret."

I ... didn't know what to say. So I kept quiet.

"C'mon, Daddy. You know the details of how I'm losing the loser. How about some reciprocation?"

These were things I was not at all comfortable talking about. But I felt I owed it to my daughter to be honest.

"Christy," I waggled my head, "it's not like I'm carrying a torch or anything, but the truth is I haven't so much as kissed another woman since your mother died."

Her jaw dropped. "But Dad!" Her further comments circled around the notion of how guys are always looking for it. That it was natural for me to seek out someone else. Definitely, after three years.

A thought occurred in my head, and I nearly shot wine out my nose. I barked a laugh. "Lead me down to the pen of eligible women, and lemme have a look, then. Where, exactly, do they congregate, waiting for the likes of me? Those kind of bars suck. Join a church group--that's even worse. I could hang out in libraries and vegetable aisles, but that seems really creepy. It's kind of convenient for me to do the laundry in my own house. I think becoming a volunteer worker for an organization devoted to good is a very honorable. But couple it with the hope of finding a new girlfriend, and the action is rendered pathetic..."

"But what about your needs?" she interrupted. She gave me the it's okay smile. "C'mon, we're all human."

That we are.

"After all," she exclaimed, "you're still young and virile. What are you doing, sitting home all alone all the time?"

I blushed, but shrugged out the truth. "Boys figure that shit out pretty early."

"Yea, but," she narrowed her shoulders and nodded, "isn't that more of a stop-gap thing?"

What could one do but reply with a shrug?

I couldn't explain why I wasn't dating sexy ladies my age. I didn't really know. I didn't really care. "It's just about appetites," I ventured. "If you're thirsty, a bottle of Perrier is nice. But you slake it just as well sucking from the tap."

That explanation didn't satisfy my daughter. I went at it from another angle.

"Sure, gourmet meals linger like landmarks in memory, but in reality, it's so much easier to just slap together a sandwich. Hunger solved."

Christy kept pressing, until I broke. "Honey, stop it. You know the story. We were virgins of 13 when your mother grabbed my hand. I don't know how to date. Having never had to find and then wade through a list of potential new mates, I'm not really sure I want to. So maybe give me a break?"

She agreed to my terms, and shut up.

It wasn't long before the t.v. became boring, and the silence between us uncomfortable. I decided I was ready for bed. I rose to do so, leaning fast back down to kiss Christy on the forehead. "I'm going to bed. But first I do want to say that I appreciate your thoughts and concerns. I know I should be more social, and I'm aiming in that direction, but I'm just not ready yet."

My words eased the tension. Christy levitated from the cushions to give me a hug. "Dad, I just want you to be happy."

That did make me happy. Until my eyes glanced down and I was ashamed that they stayed glued on the sight, taking in the generous look down the front of her shirt.

Maybe it was a good idea to start socializing again, at least to the extent that I'd get to see breasts again. Ones bared for my admiration, not the stolen shadows down my daughter's top.

I left Christy in the livingroom. I got ready for bed, and then I got in bed. My cock was thinking about boobs, wanting some attention, but I ignored it once more, turning again instead to read about 5 pages of the pretty boring book on my bedside table, after which all of me was ready for sleep.

It was about 3 hours later--the red bedside numerals read--when I lurched awake. I would've drifted back down, but I needed to pee and was incredibly thirsty. Like a breaching whale, I was fresh out of a long dream involving a swimming pool.

The house was quiet and dark; I moved down the hall like a spirit. Christy had left her bedroom door ajar, and as I passed it, I heard some rustling coming from inside, like she was dreaming and shifting in her sleep.

I continued to the bathroom, shutting the door behind me. I did my exchange of fluids as quietly as possible. I waited in the bathroom for the toilet tank to fill and shut up before I opened the door back into the hall.

Once in the hall I was next to her door--stopped by the sound. I knew the noises. They remained in my vestigial memory. I was the only other person in the house--I was clearly hearing my daughter pleasuring herself. I stood still, not wanting to disturb her. When she started hitting a pitch, I gambled on her distraction to move to the other side of her door, closer down the path of retreat to my own room.

I made the move past her door undetected. But there I lingered. I felt like the worst person in the world, but I couldn't move. I wanted to hear my daughter as she collapsed into orgasm. I wanted to listen to a woman in the throes of her own pleasure. After that happened, I padded silently back to my own bed. I lay there ignoring an erection like a construction crane. Eventually the end-of-shift whistle blew and I fell back asleep.

The next day Christy was very happy, and very busy, getting her room in final order, and doing some actual work-work it seemed. The computer kept sounding awfully busy. Well after lunch, I went to the grocery and bought the ingredients for a nice dinner.

I was in the kitchen prepping up a storm, getting some of the cooking going, when Christy popped in. "Smells great! I'm done for the day. What can I do to help?"

"Nothing. Maybe if you feel like it, go out and hunt down some movies and wine."

The dinner turned out 4-star, and we ate it watching some cheap zombie slasher film. It was a perfect match. After we'd cleared the kitchen, we hit the wine and turned to the night's other feature. It started out as some romantic comedy, but then there kept being rather arousing nude scenes. It was like an American studio had somehow birthed a French or Italian film.

About 20 minutes in, Christy got up and left the room. When she came back, she sat on the couch right next to me. She'd changed into the shirt she'd completed, and a pair of long, long bared legs. As she settled in, the long tails of the dress shirt shifted enough to give me a reassuring glimpse that she did have panties on underneath. As she leaned against me, it seemed awkward not to, so I slunk an arm over my daughter's shoulder. In response, she snuggled in even closer.

Christy sort of shivered under my arm. "This movie is actually pretty sexy." It certainly was, and I was totally trying to ignore the fact, but then her words had my cock throbbing back to life. Like a dead weight dropped on my head, I suddenly realized that my daughter wasn't so much shivering as she was squirming. Like, in her seat.

I watched as, unassisted, her nipples poked out the fabric of the shirt like she was typing out Braille. Christy shifted a little away from me. She drew her hands together; then they parted and began rubbing up and down the other's forearm. It was a most sexy gesture.

Then she spoke her piece. "This movie's getting pretty steamy--it's getting me all hot. And I don't want to wait to go to bed to go with the flow. I want to take care of things right now. Hope you don't mind!" And then she added in a near whisper, "You know what I'm talking about. I know you heard me last night when you got up to get a drink of water. I wasn't exactly being discreet about my bedtime lullaby."

With that, one of her hands was reading Braille, while the other dipped up under the hem. "Girls figure that shit out pretty early, too," she grinned.

I was stunned, and aroused. I was more than just aroused, I was more aroused, because I'd already been pretty aroused by the movie, so the additional arousal on top of the original arousal had my brain reduced to a ping pong ball rattling around in my skull. The focus of all my thoughts was the tamping down of my arousal: the mach 2 version!

"If you too don't feel like waiting to go to bed, feel free to play with yourself. I certainly don't mind. Mmm, trust me, it really enhances the movie-viewing experience."

I did not follow suit; I just sat there, not believing what I was seeing when I forgot to remember to be pretending to be watching the movie. I was an old widower sitting on his livingroom couch trying to watch t.v. despite the distractions. Such as I was a forty-year-old guy who hadn't had sex in the three years since his wife died, while further down the sofa, our lovely daughter of 24 years was openly masturbating herself into a frenzy.

My tactics stopped working. If I'd been anymore aroused, I'd have split like a brat on a too hot grill.

Christy gave herself a tremendous orgasm, while remaining modest with her hemline. She resurfaced, sputtering and gasping, and grinning at me. Her grin had the daring twist of a girl caught doing something bad, but she don't care. A grin like a challenge, to join her in doing wrong.