"Don't Fuck!" Dad signed.
It was my first date with Rick, a severely mulletted boy (even by late 80s standards) who blinked too frequently and too intently for someone without Tourette's.
"I know, I know!" I furiously signed back.
God, how rude and ineffective. Hadn't my parents figured out by now that they were worthless in the department of distilling advice? I could fuck Rick, whether Dad liked it or not. Whether I liked it or not.
"Don't fuck," he insisted. "I don't want you pregnant. I want you graduate and go college."
I was college bound. A year and a half after that date with Rick, I would graduate from Richland High School summa cum laude with honors. I was in the drama club, held the starring role in at least one play, was involved in sports and a slew of nerdy groups like Wiz Kids.
A dream student. A dream daughter.
In the end it wasn't fucking that stopped me from living Dad's dream...my dream.
It was Dad.