Digital Indoctrination IV

It’s the red Corvette that was the catalyst for the heated exchange. Over dinner Cindy announces she is using the money sent from her biological father to purchase a flashy high performance car. Having had her driver’s license for mere months, I consider her decision to be brash and impulsive. I so state. Vicky intercedes in front of Cindy suggesting... no... more like commanding... that I have no say in the matter.

Fueled with lasting traces of the day’s dosage of methamphetamine, the irritation of an unsettling trading day, I still manage to calm, ceding the matter. Yet the irrepressible Cindy needs to further aggravate, smirking in telling me to kiss her ass. I fume, unaccustomed to being so powerless. And wife Vicky does nothing... says nothing in admonishment.

I find that though early, it is time for my quaalude, that which brings quiescence... the hurly burly of the trading desk... the lost battle of the Corvette... to be forgotten in the languor of a narcotic haze.

I arise from the dinner table. Wife Vicky, knowing of my addiction, smirks as well, for some reason basking in my chemical dependence, pills needed to endure the events of a typical day. She is well aware of my destination... the den... my desk... the locked drawer... the small but so meaningful pill bottle smuggled from an underground laboratory in Mexico.

I sit back at my desk and rest, but not fully. As stated it is early, and when the remnants of the meth mix with the soapers there comes this sense of omnipotence. Still I manage to compose in the den trying to put aside thoughts of Princess Cindy and her regal mother Queen Vicky.

Then something happens. Digestive tumult. The raucous over dinner brings sudden pressure, though I am sure the deluge of narcotics abets colonic distress. A quick trip to the bathroom is imperative. In the obscurity of uppers and downers I race up the stairs, to the nearest bathroom. The door is closed, but the omnipotence prevails. I enter, hearing the shower, seeing steam waft about.

Why is not Vicky using the master bath?

I drop my drawers and sit, attention riveted to my immediate need... grateful to have made the journey without mishap... more grateful when whatever is needed to be expelled does so with promptness.

The relief is instantaneous. In flushing there comes a plaintive cry. It is the sweet young voice of vixen Cindy! In the fog of meth and ludes it had not occurred that it is she showering, particularly with the acute need for the toilet. My gorgeous stepdaughter dashes from the shower stall, the drop in pressure bringing a rushing spray of overheated water.

She is naked of course, her wet flesh gleaming in the bright halogen. She spies me, glares then smiles, the temptress quickly realizing that I am gawking, the omnipotence of my narcotic deluged brain finding no need to look away, no need to cover my eyes, shield Cindy from my  lustful gaze. I note that like her mother she is shaven... where a man most appreciates smoothness.

“Daddy want something?” she taunts, her tone sultry.

In reaching for a towel she moves slowly... seductively... the exhibition deliberate.

I am high... I am relaxed... I now feel empowered... but what should concern most... I am aroused. And the exchange at dinner, my paternal input so brusquely subordinated, remains irritating.

“You wanted your ass kissed,” I flippantly express but with hope... that such words are seriously received.

There I end my tale, my heart racing despite the forced hormonal shift... the discharge... the unloading of chemicals... norepinephrine, serotonin, oxytocin, vasopressin, nitric oxide, prolactin... the activation of the cingulate cortex and amygdala.

Dr. Becky is not pleased with the pause.