We are in the dressing room, backstage at the Miss Texas pageant, 1987. You have changed into your sequined baton-twirler romper and go-go boots, with the fishnet stockings, and you’re shaking, trying to get yourself together before the talent competition. The other girls are all walking around in various states of undress, matter-of-factly, but they don’t care that I’m in there. I’m your stepfather. I’m actually not looking at those girls, anyway. I’m trying to calm you down.

Your pageant coach, a nasty, face-from-a-jar old hag that your mother and I never liked, dressed you down after your swimsuit walk and that has utterly destroyed your confidence. Between winning Miss Sugar Land back in September and now, your mother and I gave you a $10,000 boob job for a graduation present after you transferred from Kilgore Junior College to TCU. We took you to the best plastic surgeon in Houston.

I was with you in the doctor’s office, leafing through the waiting room copies of Hustler and Cheri when you pointed to a girl and said you wanted the triple-Ds. To my friends at the racquet club, I admit that your tits are an incredible work of art. But the change in your figure totally caught Sugar Land’s Miss Texas committee by surprise.

When you got done with your swimsuit walk, your pageant coach got back in your face in the dressing room and said you had way too much jiggle in your chest. Actually, she said worse. She said you looked like a cheap hooker more than a pageant representative. That’s when your fiercely protective mother (herself Miss Cypress Ranch 1964) slapped the pageant coach across the face and was immediately removed by security. I was called into the dressing room to be with you like it was a deathbed hospital visit.

You feel like everyone is staring at you and judging you — which, obviously, is what a goddamn beauty pageant is all about. But you feel horrible and ridiculous, not pretty.

“I can’t go back out there, Daddy,” you sniffle as I straighten the rhinestone tiara atop your cute little cowgirl hat.

“Babydoll, hush, it’s OK,” I say, trying not to stare at Miss Hidalgo County as she tucks her amazingly hairy bush inside the crotch of her dance leotard.

“My boobs are just too big,” you sniffle. “I just feel like—“

“Now honey,” I say remonstratively, reaching down to dunk the ends of your batons in a bottle of lamp oil, “you wanted that size.”

“I know, Daddy,” you say, and now the tears are coming on. You start fanning your face. It’s too late. Your mascara is going to run.

“I’m sorry. I know they cost—“ you stammer.

“Oh, babydoll,” I say, hugging you. “Oh honey don’t, it’s OK. That’s nothing you ever need to worry about.”

I made so much money suing Citgo that a $10,000 boob job is peanuts. Hell, I lost a $10,000 deposit for penis enhancement surgery after I realized the doctor was a quack.

“I can’t fucking believe I got all the way here and my tits are too big,” you sigh.

“Your tits are not too big,” I say, catching myself too late. I meant to say breasts.

“Yes, they are! Look at all the girls staring at me!” you hiss.

“Shush. Shhh baby girl,” I whisper, hugging and holding you. You are on the verge of a full, sobbing breakdown. It’s clear that there’s nothing anyone can do to save this. I wrap up your fire batons in a towel and put them in a duffel bag. We have to get out of here and go back to the hotel room. I throw a huge terrycloth bathrobe over you and we leave as discreetly as we can, though everyone in the dressing room knows what a pageant breakdown looks like. Sugar Land’s pageant committee is just gonna have to be disappointed; I’ll pay them whatever it takes to make this fiasco go away.

We get in a freight elevator outside the dressing rooms and take it up to our floor in the hotel, somehow managing to avoid anyone along the way, which is a relief. You start calming down, and when we get back to your room, your sniffles have turned into cute little giggles. You’re starting to realize how silly all of this shit is. It only matters if you think it matters, after all. In the hotel room, I take off my tuxedo jacket and loosen my bowtie. You remove the bathrobe and then toss your Miss Sugar Land sash in a wastebasket.

“I don’t know about you but I need a drink,” I say. You nod. I find an airplane bottle of Gilbeys and make a gin and tonic for you. You’re still sitting in your spangled baton-twirler costume with the white fringe on the sleeves, your fishnet legs crossed, with your cowgirl hat and tiara and go-go boots. You sip your fizzy mixed drink and let the relief wash over you. I find some Crown Royal in the mini-bar and pour myself a double over rocks, then sit down on the bed next to you.

“Where’s Mommy?” you ask suddenly. We totally forgot where she was.

“The hotel told me she was being taken to the police station actually,” I say. “She’s not going to be charged, but they needed her to cool off.”

“I’m glad they did,” you say, “she never would have let me bail out of this.”

“Your mother just wants the best for you,” I say, pausing to add, “but you’re right.”

You put your hand on my thigh and pat it. But you leave it there. You move it up and to the inside, and discover that I am getting hard inside my suit pants for you.

“Babydoll,” I murmur in protest.

You squeeze and rake my thigh with your French manicure press-on nails. You put your glossy red lips next to my ear, and in your breathiest and most seductive voice, ask, “Am I pretty, Daddy?”

We both know where this is going. We have never uttered a word, even between ourselves, about how I plowed you doggy-style in our timeshare at South Padre Island. We have never said a word about the slurping, tongue-flicking, dirty-talking, pornstar-class blowjob you gave me on Mother’s Day, either. But it was in a tacky resort hotel room like the one we are in now, and there’s now a shared understanding of where this will situation will inevitably end up.

You stand up and reach behind your billowing, bottle-blonde mane to unhook the halter top of your girly dance costume. Then you hook your thumbs in the trunks, bend over, and shimmy out of it completely, kicking it aside. I kick off my shoes and unbuckle my pants, but before I can get them off you have mounted me and put your extraordinary boobs in my face, filling my mind with the aroma of Liz Taylor’s White Diamonds perfume. I kiss your neck and chin as you purr and cuddle up to me like a sex kitten, reaching down inside my pants to fondle my cock through my boxer shorts.

The next thing I know, I am totally naked, and you are wearing only your cowgirl boots and hat with the tiara. I’m gripping your waist from behind, you’re on all fours, and we are on the bed facing a full-length mirror. Slowly, tenderly, I fuck you, watching your eyes roll beneath your smoky, purple lids in the mirror as you pant and grunt against my deliberate thrusts. You ball up the bedspread in your hands and push your ass higher in the air, begging me to go faster, and harder.

I do. But not too fast. For sure you can take a hard, college-boy fucking, but I’m approaching 50 years old and I don’t want to cum too fast. I want to enjoy your beautiful body. Looking in the mirror, I see your enormous tits swaying back and forth as our bodies collide in urgent, desperate sex. I reach down and grope them with my right hand, steering your ass with my left palm on the small of your back.

“Fuck me, Daddy,” you moan. “Fuck me …”

“Oh yes, baby girl,” I pant. “Oh, babydoll.”

“Am I pretty, Daddy?” you whimper.

“Yes, baby,” I say beside your ear, leaning over your back and kissing your neck, “you are so pretty.”

You’re rocking back and forth into my big daddy dick, which fills up and stretches out your hot pageant queen pussy. You hold on to the top of your white cowgirl hat as you grunt and cry out. I grab your cowgirl boots by the ankles and pull your body into mine.

“Oh, fuck,” I finally gasp, pulling my dick from your spasming pussy. You feel the frigid hotel room air-conditioning on your swollen, wet labia. I flip you over and lean down, we kiss and lick each other several times more.

Then I raise up, reaching behind me to the bedside table and I get a mini-bottle of hand lotion from the hotel bathroom. “Wait, baby girl,” I say. I open the bottle and you start giggling as I pour the creamy lotion out all over your big boobs. You rub it in, making your tits slick and shiny. And I straddle those big triple D cups I paid for and start fucking your big tits the way I have wanted to since we came home from the plastic surgeon down in Houston.

The bed springs seem to whimper for relief with each of my powerful thrusts between your colossal bazoombas.

“Oh, God, baby girl,” I moan, “I’m gonna cum!”

“Cum on me!” you growl. “Shoot it all over me!”

I pull up and jack off all over your tits and face, four, five, six hot, sticky whips of cum lashing your tits and your cheeks and falling into your big bottle-blonde mane like ticker tape. You rub your hands up my hairy thighs and tummy and giggle.

And then, the door to our hotel room opens.

“What the FUCK?!” your mother screams.

“Mommy?!” you cry out. “Oh, no!!!!” You push me off and scramble to the bathroom, locking yourself inside. While you run a hot faucet over a washcloth to wipe the cum off your face and tits, you hear your mother berating and slapping me.

“You bastard! You fucking BASTARD!!!! My DAUGHTER?!?!?!” She snatches the keys to the BMW we drove down to the pageant and storms out of the room. “You FUCKING asshole!” she shouts on her way out as the door slams.

I’m gonna have to rent a car to get us home. And rent an apartment for us in Fort Worth as you finish college, because it looks like I’m gonna lose the McMansion in this divorce while I pay for our wedding.

Oh, well.