“I’m just going to Greg’s house”, I lied. I lied like I do just about every night. My wife, a perfect petite, green-eyed blonde, has no idea that I never end up at Greg’s house. No, I don’t end up at Greg’s house, I end up at Samantha’s, Terri’s, or Angela’s house, whichever one I choose to stalk that night. Me, a thirty-five year old married man stalking ten year olds; it’s wrong, so wrong, but I can’t stop.

My wife can’t know. She can’t know that while we make love I am thinking of ten year old girls that I watched just hours before change through the sheer curtains of their bedroom window. No, she can’t know.

I’ve never thought of telling anyone my secret desires, not until today. Today my wife told me she was pregnant…with a girl. Now my head is filled with the fear of desiring my own daughter.