Baby Bambi

    I sympathised with my daughter, Candy. Her father was way too restrictive with her. She was fifteen, and boys were asking her on dates. I understood John’s point and shared his concerns as well. Candy wasn’t ready to make mature decisions about her body, sex, and picking what boys were good and which ones were not. Candy is a sweet kid. We named her right, but she has no idea how sweet she looks to the opposite sex.

Candy still has a child’s frame, but a woman’s body has grown on it. She has full size breasts, a tiny waist, and full hips; the classic female hour glass, only scaled down. She stands four foot ten inches, weighs eighty-eight pounds, and measures thirty-two, sixteen, thirty-one. Those would be respectible measurements on a full-sized woman like me, but on Candy, they look positively voluptuous. With her full mane of auburn hair, big green eyes, and pearly white smile, she has no idea how sexy she looks.

She’s not exactly an airhead, but she’s no Rhode’s scholar either. Gullible, naive, easily led, easily influenced, and overly-trusting do come to mind. She adores male attention and sucks up compliments like an industrial shop vac. Candy doesn’t know how to play the game, and I can’t bring myself to talk about back seat ball games. I still haven’t told her about the birds and bees. The right guy, saying the right lines, could round the bases and slide into home with his first time at bat.

She needs a big sister, or a father who doesn’t break out in sweats around her. It’s not the sweats so much, it’s the erection he gets that causes the sweats. Candy has noticed his problem.

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