Like A Drug
My name is Gillian Tate. Gillian. Not Jill. I hate the name Jill, so I’ve managed to train everyone in my life not to call me that. My father, however, insists on calling me ‘Jilly’. Particularly annoying coming from someone named Jackson.
I enjoyed a very happy childhood. My dad, Jackson Tate was great, while my mother, Marguerite, was a bit more high maintenance. She always wanted more excitement than my father could provide. She was constantly complaining to me about how boring my dad was. He was always the creative type, but when she got pregnant with me at 19, he put his saxophone down and found a boring career that paid well. He became an insurance agent, of all things. Incredibly boring, but quite lucrative. I guess she wasn’t happy with the boring things he provided, like a good job, a stable, steadily increasing income, or our comfortable home out in the suburbs where we never wanted for anything.
Still, my mom was like a caged wild animal, yearning to be free. She just wanted more ‘excitement.’ She loved the idea of not knowing what would happen next. And when there was no drama, she would happily create it. I used to wonder how my dad put up with it. Finally, she created so much drama that it blew up our family. They got divorced when I was sixteen, and despite dad trying everything he could to appease her, it was an ugly and contentious divorce.
The first inkling of trouble started when I was fifteen. My dad had started teaching me to drive. He believed the best way to teach a kid to drive was to start off in housing developments that weren’t completed yet. The roads were there, the stop signs were there, all that was missing was traffic. He was right, it worked well. The housing development he chose was about 40 minutes away from our house. One day on the way back I voiced a concern I had.
“Dad? Do you think Mom is cheating on you?”
He was silent for a few minutes before he answered, “No. She’s not.”
“How can you be sure?”
Again, there was a hesitation. He said, “Because I thought she was. I hired a guy to follow her.”
“Ohmygod! You mean like a private investigator or something? Like in the movies?”
He didn’t say anything but just nodded. He seemed ashamed of this, like this was somehow a failure on his part. “Anyway,” he continued, “if she is cheating, she is very, very good at it. The guy followed her for a month and every single place she said she was going, she actually went. But he did find out something else. Something worse.”
Now I was worried. “She’s not cheating, but there’s something worse?”
“Yeah,” he said. “She does go to a book club. You know those book club meetings are just a gossip fest. My guy recorded her making a lot of awful comments about me. How basically, she doesn’t love me, doesn’t even like me, she doesn’t respect me, how she’d leave but I make too much money.”
“Damn,” I whisper. “I’m so sorry, dad. That’s got to hurt.”
He nodded. “It hurts more than if she was actually cheating.”
“What are you going to do?”
He just shrugged and focused on the road ahead.
About a month later, a young woman started working in his office. Sasha was only about 20 or 21 years old, much closer to my age than his. Somehow, she and my dad became friends. Work buddies. Mom accused him of trying to get in this girl’s pants. Dad insisted she was just a young coworker getting started in the business. Nothing on Earth could convince my mother that they weren’t sleeping together.
I managed to meet Sasha without letting her know that Jackson was my father. When I brought up the idea that there could be something romantic, she made a face as if it was the most disgusting thing in the world.
“EEWW!” she said. “No! It’s nothing like that! He’s old! He’s like my dad. He just listens to me; he gives me good advice.” I was vaguely insulted by that. I didn’t think my dad looked bad at all, and I was younger than she was. But at least she clearly wasn’t interested in him like that.
My mother wouldn’t believe a word of it. Within the year, they were divorced. She went scorched earth and neither of them could afford to keep the house by themselves. She moved into an apartment complex full of people younger than her. Dad bought a nice but smaller house on the other side of the city, where he wouldn’t run into her. I guess mom got her drama.
I stayed with Mom at first, until it was clear I was just in the way of that exciting new life she was trying to start. So, I moved in with dad, who was happy to have me. But it wasn’t all sunshine and giggles. I was angry with him. Resentful. And for some reason, jealous. Our relationship was frayed and getting worse. Somehow, I blamed him for the divorce and the disintegration of our family. If only he hadn’t made friends with some girl young enough to be his daughter. I had been looking forward to escaping to college, but mom’s lawyers got most of that. I guess their daughters needed college more.
By this point, I was eighteen. One day I was at the beach with my best friend, Gwen. We were talking about my family woes, because that’s pretty much all I talked about at the time. I had mentioned that I was thinking about going to a therapist. She blew an exasperated sigh and said, “Gillian, you don’t need a therapist. I can tell you exactly what’s wrong!”
“Really? Well, what is it? Tell me what’s wrong with me,” I said impatiently, not expecting much.
She said, “You’re angry because he’s your dad. You weren’t close to him, and you didn’t need him anymore. Your mom didn’t need him, either. But he’s the kind of guy who has a lot to give. And that girl needed it. You’re mad because he treated her like a daughter, not a girlfriend, and you’re jealous, because you want to be the only daughter. You’re resentful, because how could he treat her like a daughter?! And you’re angry at the whole thing because there’s nothing you can do about it. You need to understand… the problem here is you. He’s done nothing wrong. Hell, I wish an older guy would take a platonic, non-sexual interest in me to help my career out. Anyway, if you look at yourself, you’ll realize that’s the problem. You don’t need a shrink. That’ll be 5 cents please.”
I was floored. My best friend in the world had just hit me square in the face with some difficult truths. We enjoyed the rest of our day at the beach, but that evening I went home and thought about what she said. And the more I thought about it, the more I realized she was right. I hadn’t been a horrible daughter to my dad, but I certainly hadn’t acted like I needed him. And then this poor little waif comes along, all delicate and needy, sucking up his attention like a sponge. I was resentful.
He was no longer in touch with her. Horrified at having broken up a marriage, even inadvertently, she packed up and moved away. Of course, dad helped her with that too. But after she was gone, he never heard from her again. She was gone, and I realized I needed to let it go. And that’s what I tried to do. I made it a point to be a better daughter for him, and our relationship flourished as a result. My friend was right… he just wanted to be needed. My mom didn’t need him, and I was acting like I didn’t need him either. Once we fixed that, things got much better. With my mom gone, along with all of her drama, and me actively participating in his life again, my dad was happier than I’d ever seen him. I never really been a daddy’s girl, but this was as close as I’d ever come.
Since mom burned all my college savings, and I had no scholarship-worthy skills, college was effectively off the table for now. Dad helped with a plan for me to get it done more slowly, but without backbreaking debt. And in the meantime, he helped me find a job that actually paid enough for me to get my own place. Well, almost… he still helped out. But at least I was 90% independent. Then, two years later, COVID claimed my burgeoning career as a casualty, so at 22 years old, I moved back in with Dad. Lucky for us both, he was less affected by the Pandemic, and he has been able to provide for both of us.
*****
A few months later.
Saturday is my dad’s one day to sleep in. He finally got up and headed for coffee. I was already there, looking anxious.
“Morning, Jilly. What’s wrong?” he asked as he saw my face while pouring his first cup.
I didn’t answer right away, hesitating before replying, “Dad, I have to ask you something, but go ahead and finish your first cup of coffee.”
“You know me well,” he answered smiling, sitting back to sip his coffee in silence.
I knew my dad. I knew that he simply refused to engage with anything before his first cup of coffee. He’d been that way all my life.
In no hurry, he finished his first cup and went for his second. Finally, I could talk.
“Like I said, I have to ask you something. And I need the truth,” I said soberly.
“This sounds serious. Of course I’ll tell you the truth. I always do. What’s up?”
“Last night I got home early. Gwen was all occupied with some new guy and it wasn’t much fun. But anyway, I got home just after you’d gone to bed I guess. I was going to play on my tablet, but I accidentally grabbed yours instead. You must have just laid it down because it was still unlocked.
His eyes flashed in alarm.
“I’m just going to ask you. Dad, are you writing an erotic story about you and me?”
He stared at me like a deer caught in the headlights. There really wasn’t any point in denying it. Sure, the character’s names were different, but it was clearly a story about me and him. Me, and my own father, beginning a sexual relationship.
He exhaled and said, “I did just say that I wouldn’t lie to you. Yes, I’m writing that story. I guess you really hate me now, don’t you?”
I stood there, stunned. Outrage, shock and anger coursing through me.
“How could you do this, dad? How could you write something like that? About us? About me?”
“Well, I guess my only explanation is these were my private thoughts. You were never supposed to see it, that’s why it was on my tablet. It wasn’t meant for you. Although yes, I’ll admit, it was about you.
I shook my head in disbelief.
“You’re unbelievable. How could you have such twisted thoughts about me? I’m your daughter, for God’s sake!”
“Gillian,” he began as he stepped toward me. I stepped back away from him, disgusted. He continued, “Men have thoughts like that about their daughters. Every man who has an attractive daughter has had thoughts like that. We don’t talk about it. We don’t even admit it to ourselves. Quite frankly, not very many write erotic fiction about it. But those thoughts aren’t that far out of the ordinary. Acting on them, yes that’s another thing. But you are very attractive and yes, those thoughts have occurred to me.
I was stunned and horrified at his confession. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.
“Dad, how can you be so casual about this?” I asked, my voice trembling in anger. “It’s sickening. Those thoughts should never have crossed your mind in the first place. You’re my father, you’re supposed to protect me, not lust after me!”
“I do protect you. I always have. And I would have never said anything about it,” he insisted. “You’re the one who read my private files. Would you be happy if I read your most private thoughts? I don’t know who or what they’re about, but do you really want to share that information?”
I was taken aback by his response. He had a point, but it didn’t make what he did right.
“No, I wouldn’t be happy if you read my private thoughts,” I admitted. “But that’s not the same thing as writing them down and fantasizing about them. No matter how you defend it, that’s not normal, dad. That’s messed up.”
“You’re right. Normal people don’t. But that’s only because most people can’t write worth a damn. It’s hard to create a short story. Particularly an erotic one. It takes a certain amount of skill. And I have that skill.”
I scoffed at his attempt to deflect the seriousness of the situation.
At this point I couldn’t believe he wasn’t groveling at my feet begging my forgiveness! “So you’re proud of your writing skills? Is that it? You’re proud of being a sick pervert?”
“I’m not a sick pervert. I write erotic stories. I would never act on them, but yes, I write them. Dozens so far,” he said, without an ounce of remorse.
I felt like I was in some parallel universe, and this man was a complete stranger. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. The fact that he had written dozens of them made me even more disgusted.
“Dozens?! You’ve been writing these disgusting stories for years and you never thought to tell me? You never thought to get some kind of help?”
“‘Get help?’ I don’t need help! This is just a hobby I enjoy.”
I opened my mouth to argue but he waved me quiet.
“You know those horror movies that you like so much? You know the slasher ones?”
I looked at him, confused by the sudden change of topic.
“Yes… what about them?”
“Do you think the people who make those movies actually go out and kill people indiscriminately? Or is it possible that they just write stories that they know people want to see?
I thought about it for a moment, realizing where he was going with this.
“I guess you’re right… they just write stories, but…”
“Gillian, one of your favorite movies is about a guy who cheated on his girl but then she forgave him. Do you think that actor actually cheated on his wife and his actual wife actually forgave him? Or did they just act in a story? Well?”
I shook my head again.
“No, it’s all fiction. They’re just playing characters.” It killed me to concede the point.
“It’s no different than what I’m doing here. No I’m not happy that you found my work,” he admitted. “But I’m not going to sit here and let you make me feel like some kind of freak for doing it. I enjoy writing these stories. The site where I publish seems to receive them well. I generall–”
“Publish?! Other people have read this filth?!”
He simply shrugged and answered, “Yeah. I have a few hundred followers. A lot of writers have more.”
He was completely unapologetic. I felt a pang of anger and frustration. It was clear that he was not going to see the wrong in what he was doing. “Fine! If you’re not ashamed, then I guess I’m the one who needs to be ashamed of my own father.”
“That’s up to you, Jilly. But I will ask you to keep it to yourself.”
I rolled my eyes, feeling even more annoyed by his nonchalant attitude.
“Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone about your twisted little secret,” I sneered. “I wouldn’t want to ruin your reputation as the ‘normal dad’ that everyone thinks you are.”
That felt like an excellent place to storm off in anger. I was about to turn and do just that, when he surprised me.
“You know what? You should read one of my stories. One that’s completely edited and finished.”
I looked at him, shocked at his suggestion.
He went on, “They’re actually well written, and you might actually enjoy them. Don’t worry, you’re not directly in any of them except the one that you read, and that one is unfinished. But I do take a lot of inspiration from you. If you read my stories, you’ll see little bits of you and me and our life sprinkled in. It gives it realism.”
I couldn’t believe the audacity he had. “You’re actually suggesting that I read more of your perverted fantasies?! You want me to read your disgusting filth about me? Are you out of your mind?”
“No that’s the only disgusting fantasy that’s about you. The rest of them are about other people. Imaginary people. Fictional people that I made up.”
I sighed, feeling tired of the whole conversation. I truly didn’t understand why he was not as upset as I was.
“Just… just stop talking about it,” said. “I don’t want to hear about it anymore. It’s disturbing and wrong.”
“Okay. But you’d really like “Before You Wake in the Morning.” I think that’s some of my best work.”
I rolled my eyes again, trying to hide my curiosity.
“No, I don’t want to read it. And you shouldn’t be talking about your… ‘best work’ to your daughter.”
“It’s not about you. It’s about this girl who gets kidnapped, and then she finds out that her dad used to be a hit man. The kidnappers have no idea that he was so deadly. They just kidnapped her for the money. He takes some serious retribution on those guys. But, fair warning, there is sex in that story. Look, I write erotica. But it’s really well done.”
I tried to ignore the intrigue he was trying to create, but I couldn’t help but be a little interested. Against my better judgment, I asked, “What… what happens in it?”
“I told you,” he answered. “They grabbed the man’s daughter, and she finds out a…
