I can remember having homosexual urges since I was young. The first memory I have of this was when I was about five or six, sitting in a hot tub with my father. He was naked, I was not, but I can remember getting upset because I was clothed and wanted to be naked with my dad. This continued through my youth, my father and I always showered when on vacation together, only to make sharing the soap easier he assured me. By the time I was ten I had strong sexual urges towards my father. He shared his hobby of nudism with me, taking me to a nude beach or a secluded riverbank. I lusted after him, and he pretended to be unaware of it. I would strategize ways to get to get my hands on him. This began with applying sunscreen to his back, and as time progressed it turned into a full body massage. My father would pretend it was perfectly normal, I was just boy exploring my fathers erect penis. Our sexual relationship progressed very slowly, and I was always the one to take it to the next level. By the time I was 14 I had masturbated with him, given him a blowjob, and lots of body contact had occurred. He never penetrated me with his penis, although he did stimulate me with a toy and his hand. I would always feel extreme guilt after orgasm; my father avoided this by refraining from climax. We often rationalized the sex after it took place, “Guys are just horny,” he would say.
By the time I turned fifteen I began to realize the social context of our relationship. I was disgusted with myself for the actions I had willingly partaken in, but even more for the ongoing attraction towards my father. I turned to drugs and booze, and maintained a limited relationship with my father. He never pursued me, although he would invite me on trips that were most likely a ploy to get me alone and horny with him. I moved away for school and avoided him during breaks by working overseas for months at a time.
As my father’s relationship became more strained with my mother, his drinking began to increase. He had always been a heavy drinker, but due to the added stress of a failing marriage he became a full-blown alcoholic and pill popper. He still remained highly functional, advancing rapidly in his career, just not in his personal life. I watched bleary eyed, yet careless to his dissent.
My father’s fall enabled my own rise; my desire was to be the opposite of him. I quit drinking and doing drugs, and began running and excelling in school. I became pompous and judgmental of everyone around me, placing myself on a pedestal. I realized it was time to come out to my friends in regards to my sexuality, although I knew it would be difficult to conceal the emotion that enveloped my past. I decided to seek the help of a professional. This “professional” had a hard time understanding the parameters of the relationship between my father and I when finally confessed. Being the spiritual dragon lover that she was, she became convinced that I was an “old soul” and we had met in a past life. She never scheduled appointments after mine because she always wanted me to stay for two or even three hours, free of charge. I decided our relationship had crossed the doctor patient boundaries long ago, so I removed myself from her care.
When I realized that I had not any closer to a resolution after months of therapy, I plunged back into party mode. This did not provide me with the escape that it once did, so I decided that I needed to physically escape. I transferred schools on a whim, and spent my last few months of the semester in a fucked up stupor. When it came time for me to move, I realized that I would have to ask my father for his help. He readily accepted the offer and made his way out to my apartment ready to help. When he arrived that afternoon, I could tell that he was craving his afternoon drink. He removed a gallon of whiskey from his car, and filled a glass. We packed my things that afternoon, and he drank his way to oblivion. When dinnertime rolled around he insisted that we go out to someplace nice. I was apprehensive due to the fact that he was already shitfaced and would probably embarrass the hell out of me. I knew that his stubbornness would not subside, so I drowned my doubts in my father’s whiskey. We walked to dinner from my apartment, my father wobbled down the street with a happy-faced mug in hand, full to the brim with the last of the whiskey. We each consumed about five more drinks at dinner; I couldn’t handle my drunken father anymore.
By the time we got back to my apartment I was just as drunk as my father. I don’t remember much, except for taking off all of my clothes and sitting next to my father. He told me he would do anything I wanted, so I laid back and let him suck me. After I cummed in his face I walked to the kitchen, grabbed a bottle of vodka, and cried myself to sleep. I was mortified when I awoke the next morning, it had been six years since I had touched my father – how had I had slipped so far. My father was in the kitchen fixing his morning drink; he smiled at me and asked me if I wanted him to take a few days off so that we could spend more time in my secluded apartment. I declined, and we spent the rest of the weekend relatively silent around each other.
I really don’t know what to do about my situation. Any words of wisdom would be appreciated.