My Stepdad Taboo Diary

Dear diary,

I'm writing this down because if I don't tell someone, even if that someone is just paper, I think I'm going to explode. This is the stepdad taboo blog post I swore I'd never write, but something happened today with my stepdad, and I can't stop replaying it, and my body won't calm down.

It started so innocently. He was in the garage working on his car, one of those old ones he's always tinkering with, and he asked me to come hold the flashlight for him. I've done it a hundred times. It's our thing. He slides under the car, I crouch next to him with the light, he tells me to angle it left, I do. Normal. Except today wasn't normal, because today I couldn't stop looking at his hands.

His hands were all covered in motor oil, dark and slick, and his forearms were all veiny from gripping the wrench, and there was this smudge of grease on his jaw. He looked so... I don't even have a word for it. Rough. Strong. Like a man. And I was crouched there in my little tank top and shorts, and I realized I was getting wet just watching him work, and I felt so ashamed and so turned on at the same time that I almost dropped the flashlight.

He noticed I was being weird. He slid out from under the car and looked at me, really looked at me, and asked if I was feeling okay because my face was all flushed. I lied and said it was just hot in the garage. He laughed and said yeah, it was hot, and then he pulled his shirt off to wipe his face with it, and diary, I swear my brain short-circuited.

He was all sweaty and there was oil on his chest and his stomach, and I just stared. I couldn't help it. And he caught me staring. Our eyes locked, and something changed in the air, like the whole garage got quieter even though the radio was still playing. He stepped closer, and I didn't move back. I should have moved back. I didn't want to.

He wiped a smudge of oil off my cheek with his thumb, except his thumb was oily too, so he just smeared it, and we both laughed, and then we weren't laughing anymore. His hand slid from my cheek to the back of my neck, and he pulled me in, and his mouth was on mine, tasting like coffee and metal and something I can't describe, and I melted. I just melted against him, getting oil all over my tank top, and I didn't care.

His hands went under my shirt, those rough, greasy hands, sliding up my ribs, and I gasped into his mouth. There was something about the oil, the way his fingers glided over my skin, leaving shiny trails down my stomach, that made me feel claimed. Marked. Like I was his project, and he was working me over the same careful way he worked that engine, except I was coming apart a lot faster than any car ever had. He pushed me back against the workbench and lifted me up onto it like I weighed nothing, and then he was standing between my legs, kissing my neck, my collarbone, pulling my tank top down. His mouth closed over my nipple and I cried out, and he covered my mouth with his hand, gently, and reminded me the garage door was open and the neighbors could hear.

That only made it hotter. The idea that anyone driving by could see. His fingers slid into my shorts, past my panties, and found me dripping. He groaned against my skin when he felt how wet I was. He worked me with those oil-slick fingers, slow and deep, and I had to bite my lip so hard I thought I'd draw blood. When I came, it was with his hand over my mouth and my legs locked around his waist, shaking so hard the tools rattled on the workbench.

After, we just sat there breathing. He wiped the oil off my cheek for real this time, with a clean rag, so gentle, and it was the tenderest thing. Then we heard my mom's car pull into the driveway, and we scrambled apart so fast. I ran inside with oil stains on my clothes and told her I'd been helping in the garage, which was technically true.

She has no idea. Nobody has any idea. And now every time he asks me to hold the flashlight, my stomach flips, because I know what those hands can do, and I know he knows I know.

I want it to happen again. I want it so badly it aches. I keep wearing that same tank top, hoping he'll ask me to come to the garage. And if he slides under that car and looks up at me with those eyes, I don't think I'll be able to hold a flashlight steady ever again.