He never penetrated me with his penis, but his fingers would routinely enter my tiny vagina. He was always talking to me, whispering things, telling me he loved me. He would grope me, run his giant hands under my nightgown and into my flowered panties - the kind that little girls wear, with yellow and pink daisies on them - and he'd talk to me. After a while, the snapping of the sheet stopped and I knew it was time. Knowing what was ahead, of course I could not sleep.

In bed he would watch TV, snapping the edge of the sheet between his fingers and the mattress while I pretended to fall asleep. For many years I held onto the notion that in some way, his attention and his obsession with me made me special. It took me a long, long time to really believe there wasn't anything special about it, that it was all just sick.

At night, while my mother worked, he took me into their bed and made me believe he was doing me a favor, giving me a special privilege. I have no memories that predate his abuse - his rubbing and touching, his forcing me to touch him.

It was his genitals I first explored he was the first to touch my body sexually, and those hands have left an indelible imprint. With my father, in his bed, I first experienced the bump and grind of sexual relations. It's ugly and, even now, more than 25 years later, difficult for me to say.

Sneaks to play with dick