Let me tell you a little about myself. I was born fifteen years ago, the “love child” of a biker and his teenage babe. I think my real mother was, like, twelve or thirteen at the time. I once asked my bitch of a mother about her, and she got reeealllyagitated. Her face got red, and she began to talk in that hysterical way of hers. The whole thing was, like, too threatening for her to deal with. Anyway, I was adopted as an infant. And I never remember being happy. I remember crying at my sixth birthday party ’cause Billy Freed poked his fingers in my Cookie Monster cake. Mom went bonkers-we hadn’t photographed the cake yet-and started screaming at Billy. Then he started crying. God, I was mad at Billy, but after Mom lit into him, I almost felt sorry for the kid. I mean, it was only a cake, you know.

Once, when I was around the same age, my mom picked me up and we looked in the mirror together. She put her cheek against mine as we stared at our reflections. I remember the feel of her skin-soft and warm, the sweet smell of her perfume. I didn’t know what I’d done to deserve such attention, and that frustrated me. Whatever I did, I wanted to do it again so Mom would hold me like this. But of course, I didn’t do anything. Mom just stared at us, then clucked her tongue and lowered me back onto my feet with an announcement: I’d never make it on my looks.

Well, what the hell did she expect? Beggars shouldn’t be choosers. It’s not like someone forced her to adopt me. The bitch. Always blaming me for things out of my control.

Did I tell you Mom is beautiful? Must have slipped my mind. We forget what we want to, right? Mom is a natural blonde with large blue eyes and perfect cheekbones. I’ve got ordinary brown hair-thin, at that-and dull green eyes. It’s been a real bitch growing up as her daughter. Mom turned forty last year, and she treated herself to a face-lift-smoothing out imaginary wrinkles. Now her face is so goddamn tight, it looks wrapped in Saran. Her body is wonderful, long and sleek. I’m the original blimpo-the kind of woman that those old artists liked to paint. I’m not fat but just really developed. Big boobs, big round ass. My mother used to put me on all these diets, and none of them ever worked. I finally told her to fuck herself and gorged on Oreo cookies. Ate the whole package right in front of her, and boy, did that burn her ass.

She gave me this little smirk and said, “You’re only hurting yourself, Kristie.”

“I’m not hurting myself,” I said. “In fact, I’m enjoying myself!”

Then she walked away with the same smirk on her face.

She once went to bed with this guy I was sleeping with. Can you believe that? Happened last summer at our beach house. I caught the two of them together. Mom got all red-faced, the guy was embarrassed, too, but I just laughed. Inside, though, I felt lousy. I felt lousy ’cause I knew that the guy really wanted to fuck her all along and was just using me as a stepping-stone.

You might ask where the hell was my dad when all this went down? I told you. He’s never around.

My friend and co-hooker came down with strep throat today and asked if I could service her regular johns. I said sure. So I go to the room she rents. It’s a typical sleazebucket of a place-broken-down bed, filthy floor, and a cracked mirror. Who should I see in it but my father? I turn my face away before he sees me. To tell you the truth, I barely recognize his face. Then I realize that he must have gotten a lift, like Mom, ’cause his skin is also like stretched to the max.

I’m shaking-half with fear, half with disgust. That dirty son of a bitch. Doing it with teenage hookers. Then I remember a few years ago. How he eyed my friends when we sat around the pool. How he strutted out of the cabana wearing red bikini briefs and shot a half-gainer off the diving board. My friends were impressed. He popped through the water’s surface, a strange expression on his face.

It was lust.

I sneak another glance in the mirror.

He holds the same look in his eyes now.

What the hell do I do?

I think about running away, but I know my friend will be real pissed. Jesus.

My dad.

I can’t screw my dad!

Then I think to myself, My mom screwed my guy …

But this is something different. He’s my dad.

’Course, he isn’t my dad by blood…

And it’s been a long time since I’ve seen him …

The thought starts to excite me. Yeah, I know it’s real perverse, but my whole family is perverse.

And at least it isn’t boring.

I take a quick hit of some snow from the vial I wear around my neck. Man, I need to be buzzed to pull this one off.

I’m real excited by now.

I drop my voice an octave-I can do that ’cause I have a great range-and tell him to can the lights. He starts bitching and moaning that he likes to do it with the lights on, and where the fuck is my friend. I tell him my friend has strep and it’s hard to give head with your throat all red and raw, and if he doesn’t want me, fine, he just won’t get laid tonight.

He cans the lights. The only illumination in the room comes from a neon sign outside that highlights his semi. It’s a good-looking one, and it turns me on even further. But I stay well hidden in the shadows of the room.

I wonder what he’ll think of my body after laying Mom all these years. Maybe he’ll think I’m too fat, but the minute he touches my boobs, his you-know-what becomes ramrod-straight. I let him bury his head in my chest, kiss my nipples. I give him a line of coke, then I take another snort. My face is always hidden.

I ask him what kinds of things he wants to do, and he says everything. I say it will cost him two fifty, and he gets suddenly outraged. A real bad acting job. I know what he makes, and he could buy all of Hollywood if he wanted to. Anyway, by now he’s too excited to argue, and five fifty-dollar bills are slapped into my wet hand. I do whatever he wants as long as he can’t see my face.

When it’s over, I tell him I have a surprise for him. He’s lying in bed now, smoking a joint. Still naked, I saunter over to the light switch, then suddenly flip it on. The cheesy room is flooded with bright yellow light. We both squint, then he sees me. It takes him a moment, then I see his tanned, tight face drain of all its color. His eyes pop out and he begins to pant. His skin takes on a greenish hue and he runs for the toilet. I hear him throw up.

Afterward he cries in my arms. But we both know it’s not over.

Dad came home at eleven tonight. Mom and he start fighting. They always fight, did I tell you that? Probably why Dad started staying away. Anyway, it’s the first time I ever remember Dad coming home in like twenty years or something. I’m no dummy. I know what the sucker has in mind, and that’s okay by me. After all, I’m not really his daughter by blood, you know.

He comes into my room at around two o’clock. I make him pay, and no shit, he agrees. Man, I know you’re gonna think I’m sick, but I gotta tell you. My dad’s all right in the sack.

This goes on for the next month. If Mom suspects anything, she doesn’t say a word. Then a strange thing happens. Life is weird-very weird. A real strange thing happens.

We fall in love.

Or something like it.

We consider all the options. The first is running away and giving me a new identity so that we can marry. The idea is discussed, then tossed in the circular file. Dad makes a couple a million buckeroos as a TV producer, and no way he could make that kind of money outside of L.A. Neither of us likes poverty.

We consider having Dad and Mom divorce and I’d live with Dad. That’s out. California has stiff community-property laws, and the bitch would get half of everything!

There’s only one option left.

First off, I gotta tell you that neither one of us really feel guilty about our decision ’cause: A, I’m not my dad’s real daughter; and B, Mom has had this coming for a long time.