I Love a Parade

The year was 1964. Mom had passed away two years earlier and dad didn’t take it well. He lost his job, and then we lost the house and had to move in with relatives. That didn’t work out well either as he had begun to drink, and he got nasty when he was drunk.

I was 16 when we moved into the Bridgeport Hotel (Free Parking! Transient Room). In the sixties, the word transient meant more like short term. We rented the room weekly and as long as dad didn’t loose his current job, we would be ok.

Now the hotel was in Portland Oregon and along the route of the Rose Festival parade. We were on the third floor and poking our heads out the window gave us a great view of the floats, horses, and marching bands.

A while into the parade, dad said he needed a drink and he went back into the kitchen. I stayed with my head out the window and could hear him getting a bottle of something from the liquor cabinet. From the clink of glass and bottle, I knew he was getting into his drinking. After a few minutes, I started to pop my head back in when I felt a hand on my lower back stop my movement.

“You look so much like your mother.” He slurred. I didn’t know what to say and experience taught me that saying nothing was probably best.

His hand roamed up my back, then down again. I was wearing a short skirt and he flipped it up over my back. I tried to move, but he forced me down and slid the window down until it trapped me. It was old and stuck at the best of times. From my position I just didn’t have the leverage to move it open any more. I looked back over my shoulder through the window and didn’t recognize the animal my father had become. He saw me looking and pulled down the blind.

His hands caressed my buttocks and ran down my thighs. Surprisingly gentle, he pulled down my panties. I started to shake, because I knew what was coming.

Back in those days, you didn’t have in-school sex ed. Either your mother told you, or your friends did. Unfortunately, my friends were fairly cruel and had only told me about the pain and blood. I didn’t want this, but I knew with the booze, I had no choice.

I felt him spread my cheeks and the whiskery stubble scraped sensitive flesh as his tongue connected with my asshole. I jumped, but strong hands on my ass cheeks held me in place. He ran his tongue along the crack of my ass down to my pussy.

I had tried touching myself in the bathroom at school after hearing about it.