Daddy

by Madison Young

  I breathe deeply in an attempt to settle my recently emptied stomach. Out the window now, I can see light, doughy formations suspended by the dozen in clear blue sky. I imagine sinking my teeth into them, envisioning the buttermilk biscuits my mother made the night my dad had left. That taste always makes me yearn for one of my dad’s big bear hugs.

  After having watched me regurgitate my morning muffin, the woman sitting across the aisle on our international flight felt shared intimacy. She sensed my physical vulnerability and, somewhere over Washington state, decided she wanted to talk. I sensed the need for human contact boiling up inside. She couldn’t contain herself.

  Harmless airplane small talk can be a dangerous situation for me. The first questions out of strangers’ mouths tend to be: “Are you from here?” and “How old is your little girl?” and “What do you do?” Our family identity is complicated. For me, the phrase Little Girl conjures different imagery than it probably does for this upbeat new mother of two from Los Angeles. She recently became a grandmother. Her youngest daughter is thirty-two and her granddaughter is five weeks old. After the birth of her two daughters, she decided to stay home and raise the kids, and now she is full of pride and excitement over the arrival of her daughter’s little girl and wants to know, “How old is your little girl?”

  The Little Girl inside me is eight years old; she never ages. She is a symbolic element of innocence of a time when sitting at Daddy’s feet or on Daddy’s lap really did solve all of your problems, a time when Daddy could make the world better. My Daddy and I have been in a relationship for seven years.

  Daddy and Little Girl are dominant/submissive dynamics that define my relationship with my partner, James. I am my Daddy’s Little Girl. James is my Daddy. Emma is our daughter, which is something else entirely. For James and me, this relationship reflects a part of our psyche that desires to be nurturing and accepting of the love and care a skillful guiding mentor can provide while he leads his Little Girl through life’s lessons. Daddy creates a space for me to feel safe in my Little Girl role. He holds a space for surrender, a space for unconditional love, and the expression of my truest self.

  We embrace our desires in these roles, as well as the roles of the authoritarian and disciplinarian. I feel warmth in my cunt when I earn a gold star on our discipline and behavior chart. My nipples tingle while we shop for back to school clothes at Bloomingdale’s, Daddy’s eyes surveying my body as he zips up my dress in the dressing room. There is power that I surrender to in this role. There is also power gained. I am able to abandon my outside world responsibilities in exchange for an hour or two of being completely present and connected with Daddy. We construct a safe space for our unorthodox, mutually pleasurable power exchange to exist in, and it feels incredibly true to slip into these natural roles. There is comfort in obedience and following our own rules, a dependable structure that allows us to explore each other.

  With dominant/submissive power play—specifically within our Daddy and Little Girl dynamic—we revel in cerebral stimulation. By slipping into these well-defined roles of our relational dynamic, we deconstruct society’s imposed power dynamics for our erotic pleasure. This happens well before Daddy has physically penetrated any of my available orifices. For me, this role of Little Girl provides a sense of comfort, excitement, and arousal all at the same time.

  When I was nineteen, my first boyfriend gave me a birthday card that read, Eight is great. Never lose your magic and love of play. He nurtured my Little Girl with stuffed animals and trinkets from the Winnie-the-Pooh store, trips to the ice cream parlor, jungle gym adventures at the nearby park, and playing hopscotch with pigtails. Eight felt like a magical age for me, a time when I was little enough to be Daddy’s Little Girl, but not so young that I couldn’t earn Daddy’s approving kiss on the forehead or express my frustrations and disappointments through tantrums.

  I’m not always a Little Girl, and I’m not always honest with strangers. So, “What do I do?” There isn’t a clear job description for my line of work, or a box that I fit in neatly. I’m an entrepreneur, president of a sex toy company, sole proprietor of a production company that makes feminist erotic films for couples, and artistic director of a nonprofit arts organization that focuses on the intersections of sexuality and identity. In short, I’m a Sex Expert.

  The flight attendant interrupts my musing with a customs form.

  “Are you all one family? You only need one customs form per family.”

  I smile and nod, “We are a family.”

  The airplane loudspeaker informs us that the plane will land momentarily and asks us to return our tray tables and seats to their upright positions. The woman across from me waits expectantly for my answers. Emma starts to stir and whimper; her slight sounds and movements wake up James and she starts to cry, her ears beginning to pop from the descent. The shaggy-haired blue-eyed toddler looks at me: “Ma ma ma ma.”

  “Come here, sweetheart.” I say. “Shhhhhh...shhhh, I know. It hurts Emma’s ears, huh?”

  Emma rubs her ears and nuzzles into my chest, trying to suckle. I remove my left breast from my low cut, V-neck shirt and offer it to her. I look at my daughter, with love, and kiss her on the forehead. With a deep inhale I look up at the woman in the row across from ours.

  “Well, I’m an artist who works on surreal landscapes and this little lady here is the love of my life, my daughter, Emma. She is fifteen months old,” I say.

  Having crossed through clouds and sky and country lines, we start our descent into Vancouver International Airport. Thousands of miles away, in the heartland of America, my dad is starting his workday with his new family. He probably kisses his wife and now four-month-old daughter goodbye and grabs a cold Coca-Cola for the road, his car already warming up in the driveway. He knows better than to drink soda for breakfast. His body has warned him time and time again with numerous painful kidney stones. My dad is a man whose rough, calloused hands tell the story of his life. He drives a company pickup truck, large enough for a car seat in the back, and with a bed hearty enough to carry the tree limbs and brush that’s hauled away after a day of work. Knowing him, the cab of the truck is encrusted with sawdust and bits of dried leaves. The truck displays the Madison Tree Service emblem—the family business of landscaping and tree care. It will be humid today; it’s the middle of August in southern Ohio, which means he’s surely dressed in a T-shirt and jeans. After a morning spent paying visits to lifelong clients, he will eat salted homegrown tomatoes for lunch, then prune a couple of pear or magnolia trees before checking up on the crews he sent out to do the big jobs and check for rookie mistakes.

  My dad’s short, curly, blond hair and reddish-blond beard give him a coarse appearance—an amusing counterpoint to his jester-like antics and a vocabulary that rivals that of Lewis Carroll. He used to refer to me and my brother as Lizard Lips and Snaggletooth, and could recite rhymes and riddles about Old Dan Tucker. I have been known to break into limericks of my own, much to my friends’ amusement. I still remember my dad’s riddles, and they have come in handy now that I have a child of my own. My father is a hero to me, he taught me the value of hard work and a love of play. Though our lives have drifted far apart, one thing connects us—we’re always armed with a bag full of rope.

  My rope is neatly coiled and rests patiently in my carry-on bag, waiting for James—my Daddy—to hold it in his skilled and calloused hands and cinch its toothy texture around my naked skin.

  Whenever we travel, the security agents at the airport examine the fine jute rope coiled in my carry-on bag.

  “Are you into rock climbing?”

  Daddy and I spooned close to one another on our queen size mattress. The warmth of his long, slender body felt comforting to my small, curvy frame. His arms cradled me close to his furry chest and I felt the scruff on his face against the nape of my neck. I slowly opened my eyes. Sometime in the night I stole the covers, nothing new, b
ut my feet were still cold. They’re always cold. I rubbed my icy toes up and down Daddy’s scruffy calves. Daddy stirred in bed and his hands traced my neck down to my back and grabbed ahold of my hips tightly. Daddy ground his cock against my ass and I felt it pulsing, throbbing. His hand grasped a chunk of my thick strawberry-blonde hair as he pulled my head back and whispered into my ear, “Get your ass in the air, Slut.”

  “Yes, Daddy.”

  I turned over and stuck my ass high in the air, folded my arms behind my back and faced the side. Daddy threw a single strand of fibrous jute rope down beside my face. He rubbed my face in the rope, teasing me. We both knew that we didn’t have time for bondage that morning, but he indulged my senses in the scent and taste of one of my favorite sensuous pleasures: rope. My eyes closed and Daddy’s heavy hands came down on my ass, hard.

  “Thank you, Sir. Thank you, Daddy. God that feels so good, Daddy. You’re making my cunt so wet, my love.” His hands found their way between my legs and he filled my hole one finger at a time, then he flipped me over onto my back.

  “Would my Little Girl like a nice hard fuck from Daddy?” he said as he stretched my legs back toward my head.

  “Yes, Daddy. Please fuck me, Daddy,” I said as his long, hard cock penetrated my wet cunt. Those first long, slow strokes caused me to sink my nails into our covers, reveling in the teasing pleasure of having his delicious cock inside of me. Then his fucking gained momentum, pounding deep. He lowered his mouth to my breast and sucked with great pressure.

  “Please, Daddy. Please, may I come?” I begged of him.

  “Yes, come for Daddy, Slut.”

  My cunt clenched tightly around his cock and I screamed out in deep pleasure. Daddy continued to push hard and deep in my cunt as his breathing escalated in speed and he released a deep moaning orgasm and came onto my belly, all over the stretch marks from the birth of our daughter. I scooped up his come and fisted it into my mouth with love and devotion. I looked up with puppy dog eyes, “I love you, Daddy.”

  “I love you, too, Slut.” He kissed my head and mouth, sending me off with a gentle, loving slap on my face. “Now go jump in the shower. Our Em will be up any minute.”

  I headed off to shower, covered in my Daddy’s juices and dripping in my own. The hot shower washed over me, steam filling up the bathroom, and I lathered citrus scented body wash in my hands and over my body.

  Toweling off and slipping into a navy blue polka dot vintage dress, I heard Emma start to cry, “Down. Down. Ma ma ma ma. Down,” from her room.

  “Mama’s coming, sweetheart. Did my little muffin have a good sleep?” I asked as I picked her up from her crib and placed her on the changing table.

  “Book. Mama. Go. Book.” She knows what she wants! I laughed and changed her diaper as she squirmed, relentless in her pursuit to get to the bookshelf.

  Emma reached for a colorful orange book. I pulled it off the shelf and thumbed through it, trying to read each page before she turned to the next. The book, 10,000 Dresses, features a young, transgender girl who wants to wear dresses, but her parents don’t understand. Emma pointed at the illustrations.

  “’S zatt?” Emma’s finger landed on a dress made of lilies that hangs from a red valentine staircase.

  “That is a dress made of flowers. This little girl dreams that she can have a dress just like that one. That dress will make her feel pretty and cozy. It’s magic,” I said. Emma picked up the book and brought it to her nose, inhaling and exhaling in rapid succession, attempting to smell the picture of the flower dress.

  “’S zatt?” Emma quickly turned the page, almost ripping it clear out of the book.

  “A mommy. I’m your mommy. Ma-ma. Everyone has different types of parents or people who care for them. Not everyone has a mommy, but this character does, and you do. We all have people who love us. And I love, love, love you!”

  “’S zatt?” Emma pointed to the image of the dad outside mowing the lawn.

  “Well, that is a daddy. Da-da. You have a da-da.” I lift Emma up so she can peek out her window at her da-da in the garden. “A daddy loves you and protects you and lets you know that everything is going to be okay. But sometimes da-da will fall and go boom.”

  Emma opened her mouth wide, “Ooooo. No boom!”

  “Yes. Sometimes we all go boom. Even daddies. But we get back up because we are brave. This daddy in the book is falling down right now.” I tried to explain as best I could and she seemed to understand, nodding and flipping to the next page.

  “What’s that?” she asked, pointing to an illustration of the protagonist’s hippie seamstress neighbor, the first person who honors the young girl’s gender identity.

  “That is ‘chosen family.’” I told her. I knew she didn’t comprehend this term yet, but I wanted her to know that family does not only exist among blood relatives, and that in queer communities and families such as ours we often search for belonging. “That person makes the little girl feel really cozy.”

  James pushes the cart full of luggage through the Vancouver airport: suitcases, backpacks, bags full of children’s toys, and toys for Mommy and Daddy. Emma’s car seat teeters on the mountain of essential objects for work and play, for the care of both a toddler and her parents. Since Emma’s birth, I have been slowly reintroducing myself to the public as my identity, work priorities, and availability shift from my postpartum stage to some version of working motherhood. This is our first work trip attempting to travel as a family and we’re headed to Vancouver Edge, a weekend-long event featuring workshops, presentations, and roundtable discussions on the topics of relationships, gender, and sexuality.

  My first attempts at heading back to work were comical. At six weeks postpartum my stretch marks and pregnancy weight lingered like battle scars. I stood before the camera naked and awkward, attempting to seduce the viewer with my eyes and suppress the insecurities that were flaring through my psyche as I touched my furry red cunt and leaked milk from heavy, lopsided, and engorged breasts. I found my stride again on the other side of the camera and in a lecture hall of eager university students. I was a new, more maternal creature, no longer the girl next door, and I didn’t need to pretend to be.

  When Emma turned a year of age, I began traveling from city to city a week out of the month, teaching sexuality workshops and directing erotic films. Daddy stayed home, caring for Emma, splashing in the baby pool, and planting tomatoes in the desert sun of Southern California—where we built an island of family, far from the intrusive gaze of fans and the supportive encouragement of his community. We were finding who we were again in that quiet desert.

  The Vancouver Edge BDSM—bondage, dominance/submission, sadism/masochism—conference is a chance for me and Daddy to be together as a family, to go to work together building community again, and to return from work together (to our temporary home, the hotel) greeted by our little bean, Emma. I’m excited for Daddy and for us; we deserve this.

  “Do we know who is picking us up or what they look like?” James asks, scanning the crowd.

  “No. I’m not sure. But they know what we look like.” I smile, trying to steer toward a clear, visible area where our ride might recognize us. I’m unsure if they’ll recognize me. I have glasses on and my hair pulled back; my face is free of makeup. I’m wearing a pink seventies vintage T-shirt that read “Daddy’s Little Girl” over form-fitting skinny jeans and a kelly green hoodie. Not exactly the femme fatale my film image projects. James, luckily, is clearly the Mr. Mogul of his many on-screen performances. It’s impossible not to notice his tall, slender 6’1” frame. My petite body often gets lost among the crowd.

  Our driver is a conference volunteer, Daniel, a tall gentleman with short dark hair and a gentle demeanor. Daniel’s day job is organizing and participating in triathlons. In the kink community and among friends, he is referred to lovingly as Moose.

  “Tina, over here!” Moos
e shouts and we muscle our way through people milling aimlessly in passenger pickup. I guess I was recognizable despite my “nerdy exhausted mama” disguise.

  I quickly walk up to the gentleman, Emma bouncing up and down in my arms. She wants to get down and play, but she will have to wait.

  “Hi there. Only my mother calls me Tina. I’m Madison, this is little Emma, and James Mogul,” I motion to James.

  “Oh, sorry about that. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Madison. I’m kind of new to this whole thing so I’m still figuring out how this alternative name thing works. But folks like to call me Moose.”

  “Pleasure to meet you, Moose,” James extends his hand and we follow Moose out to his black SUV in the parking garage.

  “I picked up a little something for Emma.” Moose hands us a plush toy moose clothed in a red sweatshirt with a white maple leaf decal. Emma squeezes the moose tight in her hands and brings its face to hers to give it a loud kiss, “Muah!”

  “How sweet!” I say, with a smile, and snap some photographs of Emma and her new friend.

  We stop at the community center, where the conference is being held. We’ve been up since 4:00 a.m. and our evening probably won’t come to a conclusion before midnight. More coffee is definitely necessary. I cross my fingers that Emma will not need to nurse from my soon-to-be-caffeine-laden breasts. Emma has been self-weaning, but still needs the comfort of her mother’s milk throughout our daily transitions. She taps at my chest, pulling my shirt aside and seeking closeness as she asks for “nurse nurse.” Her mouth latches onto my breast and suckles, soothing life’s little disturbances and pains—an overly tired body, painful teething gums, aching growing bones, and bruises from her toddling body toppling to the ground while playing a game of chase with the stray cat that we have adopted and named Bukowski. Life’s little bumps and bruises are a regular occurrence for our adventurous child.