Daddy

by Madison Young

  “That will be eleven dollars...uh, little girl,” he said, looking a little confused. I handed him a ten and a five-dollar bill that Dad had given me to pay for dinner and scooped up the large cheese pizza.

  At thirteen years old, I had just entered my second year of junior high school. I wasn’t a woman but I didn’t much feel like a little girl, either. I felt awkward and displaced, but I was able to forget all that when my dad was home. My mom and dad fought viciously, but they seemed to have passion together and love for one another. Their quarrels never lasted long and at the moment, my dad was focused on rebuilding closer ties with his family, including my brother Reo and me.

  On Wednesday evenings my mom worked late, so on Wednesdays Dad would come to our house after he finished working. We would order pizza and gather around the television to watch one of our favorite programs, The Wonder Years.

  We piled pillows on the floor and our two dogs, Chester and Velvet, ran circles around us, panting and jumping, bouncing off of the couch, begging for a bite of warm, gooey, cheese pizza. Mom liked to keep the dogs in their kennels, but when Dad was around he set them free. Dad didn’t have any rules.

  The program’s theme song (Joe Cocker’s cover of The Beatles’ “With a Little Help from My Friends”) came on and we starting singing along together, swaying with our pizza in the air back and forth and watching the opening sequence of super-8 home movie footage.

  My nine-year-old brother got up and started jumping on the couch, singing: “What would you do if I sang out of tune? Would you stand there or walk out on me? Lend me your ear and I’ll sing along.”

  I picked up our smallest dog and started waltzing around the living room holding his paws in my hands and belting out the familiar tune that we knew so well.

  My dad coiled up a magazine, knelt onto one knee and started singing into the magazine as if it were a microphone. “I will try not to sing out of key! I get by with a little help from my friends.”

  Hanging out with dad felt like we were hanging out with a friend. We watched Fred Savage go through puberty, deeply involved in his high school traumas: pimples and first dates, crushes, breakups, school dances, and the period of mourning following a death in the family. Watching these fictional stories on TV, stories that—though fiction—rang very true, I both felt empathy for the characters and a voyeuristic charge from watching how a “normal” family functions.

  On the television, a family was bickering. The oldest brother had just decided to enroll in the army rather than have to take his SATs. His family completely terrified that he would be shipped off to the Vietnam War. I understood; I knew what it was like to be separated from the ones that I love. Dad may have not been shipped overseas, but sometimes it felt that way. Every time he left, we were terrified that he would never come back. What if he just never comes back? I knew Reo, too, felt that fear.

  “You want another slice, Reo?” I asked, and handed him another piece of pizza.

  “Thanks Sis.” He took the slice and sunk his teeth in, then washed it down with a big gulp of soda. The ice cubes had melted in our drinks, and we knew it was getting closer to dad’s scheduled departure.

  I looked over at Dad, surrounded by the dogs, eyes glued to the television, barely touching his food. He stared at the television watching as the parents sat down with their son. Their anger dissipated, exposing fear and vulnerability when they realized their son might be taken from them. My dad’s eyes started to get watery and he quickly wiped a few tears away with the sleeve of his shirt.

  I took a seat next to my father and the dogs and patted him on the shoulder. “It’s going to be okay, Dad. It’s just a TV show.”

  The Wonder Years was the closest thing that we had to home videos, and I lived for those moments huddled around the television like it was a campfire. It was my fantasy of a family life we didn’t have that I could escape into and live vicariously through, one episode at a time. The stories were not our own, but the emotions rang true. Scrolling credits meant our family moment was over. I had to return to our fractured world, with my absent father and bitter mother.

  The ending credits started to roll and I heard Mom unlocking the front door, home from work.

  “I think that’s my cue, you guys. I need to get going. It’s getting late.” Dad took the dogs by the collar and led them back their kennels.

  “Just stay ten more minutes. Pleeeease, Dad?” I whined and took his truck keys from the coffee table to hold them hostage.

  “No, Tina, I need to go. Give me my keys. I’ll see you guys on Sunday after church. How does Castle Skate Rink sound?” Dad held out his hand and I reluctantly tossed them into his palm.

  “Cool. Can we get licorice rope?” My brother joined in with a bargaining plea: If you are going to be absent from our lives for days then we want candy and family fun time in return.

  “You bet. Alright, give your old dad a hug.” Dad was happy to meet our demands: part-time dad, full-time fun. We rushed to him and gave Dad a tight squeeze, an affectionate bear hug.

  My mom was in the foyer hanging up her coat in the closet. “Hello, Richard. Did you and the kids have a nice time? Didn’t leave a mess for me, did you?”

  “Life is a little messy, Gail. If you don’t have messes it means you aren’t living.”

  “Why is it that you’re always the one livin’ while I’m the one stuck with the mess to clean up after?” Mom’s eyes looked a little watery, she was speaking under her breath and seemed about to loose her cool.

  “I’m doing the best I can. We’ve got some great kids,” Dad peeked over his shoulder and caught a glimpse of two little heads, watching.

  “Yeah…yeah we do,” my mom sighed in exhaustion. Dad nodded his head in respect like a Western cowboy and headed off into the dark night.

  Reo and I, noses pressed to the family room window, watched Dad’s pickup pull out of the driveway and drive off toward a home that was his, and his alone.

  “One order of fries, two cherry sodas, one veggie burger, hold the onions, hold the pickles, and one cheeseburger, no bun, with the works.” The waiter at Orphan Andy’s Diner in San Francisco’s Castro District slung our order down in front of us as we drunkenly pawed at one another. Blake and I had been pawing all night. She was hot, a petite five-foot-two queer gender-fucker with strong, masculine arms and legs that had been decorated with delicate flowering cherry trees. She was also twenty-one years old and a Japanese-American art school student, sexual deviant, and MMA fighter-in-training. Fucking badass. We started our night in San Francisco’s official dyke bar, the Lexington Club, a little hole-in-the-wall, maybe eight-hundred square feet, including multipurpose bathrooms that had seen more sexual play than a men’s bathhouse. On a busy night you might find up to a hundred and fifty women flooding the small bar. Blake had texted me to meet her after her grappling lesson.

  As soon as I walked through the doors a sexy femme bartender with dyed jet-black hair, a septum piercing, and bangs asked to see my ID. Thumbing through my wallet I found my laminated proof of age, twenty-two, an Ohio state ID. I’d arrived in San Francisco nearly a year ago in 2001, but I hadn’t yet gotten a California license. I had more important things to do than stand in line at the DMV. I ordered a whiskey and cranberry juice and surveyed the room. It was still early and the bar was pretty empty. In the middle of the room, two stone butches about thirty years old, one with a short buzz cut and the other with a long mop of hair and bangs sweeping over her eyes, dressed in a football jersey, were playing pool. In the corner there was a party of three enjoying the jukebox. A curvy, short femme, breasts spilling out of her vintage bustier and donning a fifties-style dress, a cigarette in hand, crossed the room. She whistled as if calling for her dog, “Heel, Blaire! You’re not going to let me smoke out front all alone are you? ”

  Blaire, it must have been, possibly her lover, scampered after her like a scared puppy in checker
ed Vans sneakers and cuffed jeans. She was wearing a florescent green trucker hat with Suck It on the front, and fumbled through her pockets for a lighter.

  They seemed to have abandoned their third party, a young transgender man in his early twenties with piercing blue eyes and light blonde waves of hair peaking out from behind a black AK Press hoodie. He pulled a book out of his messenger bag, which was decorated with buttons from assorted punk bands, and adjusted large black Buddy Holly glasses, sliding them back up the bridge of his nose.

  The door to the bathroom swung open and Blake appeared. She had a grin from ear to ear and I could tell she was up to something. She was mischievous. When Blake set her eyes on me, I became putty in her hands. She approached and slammed a tumbler full of ice and liquid onto the bar. I stepped off of the bar stool and she slowly pushed me up against the wall. We were right under a fabulous painting and I was vaguely wondering who the artist was, thinking their work deserved to be showing at my gallery rather than this low-lit dive bar. There was no time to think about work right now. Blake already had one of her hands on my chest and the other pushed hard against my cunt. She inched her hand up from my sternum to my neck, where she applied just enough pressure to make me weak in the knees and wet in my cunt. She then grabbed the tumbler off of the bar and replaced the hand that was on my cunt with her knee, pressing, thumping, and grinding her thick, fibrous thigh between my legs. She leaned in close to my ear, and whispered, “I made you a little something. It’s a Blake special—orange juice, pineapple, vodka, and piss.”

  I opened my mouth in distaste and then something stopped me.

  “Chug this down and I’m going to take you into the bathroom and fuck you so hard you bleed.” Blake smiled, and brought the glass to my lips.

  Sweet tastes of pineapple and orange hit my tongue as I chugged the strange, icy mixture. It mingled with the salty sweat-like taste of urine and the astringent sting of vodka. It was not nearly as bad as I thought it was going to be. Blake’s delicate left hand reached through the pocket of my paint-splattered jeans, serving as a welcome distraction while her right hand tilted the cold, dewy glass into my mouth. My eyes remained tightly closed, and I couldn’t help but smile at the taboo pleasure I felt from obeying Blake’s bizarre orders.

  When the glass was emptied I opened my eyes, mouth still agape, as Blake’s lips met mine. She kissed me hard and dragged me across the bar through the bathroom doorway, then pushed me into the stall and locked the door. The small, low-lit red room had only a filthy toilet and walls covered in graffiti and fliers for queer and lesbian club nights and film festivals.

  Blake removed my T-shirt and pinned my arms above my head, exposing my small breasts and tossing my shirt onto the wet floor.

  “Take off your pants, I want to fuck you right here,” she moved down my body, her mouth surrounding my nipple and biting hard.

  “Ahh, not quite so hard, Blake, please,” I pleaded, turned on but unsure. I was still pretty new to San Francisco, and to sex. Though open to trying everything, I was still terrified and didn’t know what to expect.

  “Ha, is that too much for you, Tina? Don’t worry; you don’t have to worry at all right now. Just relax and enjoy the ride. Every dyke needs an initiation in the Lex bathroom—a nice, hard fuck.”

  I looked into Blake’s eyes and suddenly believed every word she said. Her lips returned to mine and she pressed hard against me in every way. There was nothing gentle or delicate about Blake, or the way she fucked; it was raw and primal. There was no fear, no façade, and I felt like she could tear me open and expose me whole to the city of San Francisco, to the cold night air full of drunken hipsters wandering aimlessly down Valencia Street. Queers, artists and outsiders who had moved here to seek refuge; people like me. This was a place that would accept us for who we were; a place that would love us and celebrate our differences and flaws. In this hilly city between the bay and the ocean, I had a chance to discover my humanity and let go of shame. It was terrifying and beautiful at the same time.

  It was hot in the bar and sweat was running down Blake’s face as her wet mouth trailed down my body, past my navel, toward my cunt. I arched my back and thrust my hips forward toward her, aching to be devoured. I ran my fingers through my own hair, pulling at the roots, unsure how to react in the face of the building intensity that Blake was generating between my legs, her nose nuzzling my clit like the nose of my stuffed bunny rabbit once did. She opened her mouth wide and sucked my entire cunt, her tongue roving vigorously in different patterns—up and down, running circles around my labia and clitoris—that make my body tingle. My legs splayed open wide, one foot propped onto the toilet, I balanced with pointed feet as my excitement continued to build. Her tongue reached deep into my cunt and I felt myself approaching orgasm.

  “Oh my God, oh God…so fucking good. Please, please!” I didn’t know what I was begging for but I knew that I wanted to beg for it.

  “Not yet, Puppy. So eager, in such a rush to get to the finish line. Turn around and stick your ass out to me.” Blake rose from her knees and her hands came down onto my ass with a thunderous clap. Her paws clawed down my now red and sensitive ass cheeks. She placed one hand on the arch of my back and with the other reached around for my wet cunt. Her hand zeroed in on my pulsing clit before slipping into me, wet, sloppy, and unapologetic. She vigorously filled me up with her fingers, and I yelped in pleasure with each rotation of her hand.

  “Ah. Ah. Ah. Ah. Ah!” A wave of warmth came over my body and I collapsed onto the wet, grimy, beer-scented floor, my body sticky with a mix of sweat, come, urine, and saliva. I felt both completely undone and whole at the same time, a feeling that I had never experienced until that moment. Blake squatted down next to my disheveled body, kissed me on the mouth, and looked me in the eyes. “Are you okay?”

  Naked, next to a filthy porcelain toilet, and covered in assorted bodily fluids, in the middle of San Francisco at a dyke bar, I was more than okay. I felt a complete sense of belonging. Tears streamed down my face and I laughed, surprised by my own lack of self-control. Embarrassed, I hobbled to my feet, still weak in the knees, and I awkwardly maneuvered my way back into my damp and foul-smelling clothes.

  “Yeah, I’m okay. I’ve just never quite had sex exactly like that before,” I said. “I’m good. I feel really good.” My hair was damp and knotted. It looked like I had just come in from a winter storm, and it kind of felt like that, too. I was open and vulnerable and it felt like it was time to seek shelter.

  “Let’s go grab some food. I know just the place.” Blake took my hand and helped me to my feet. We exited the bathroom, where a small line of women had started to form.

  The butch girls playing pool nodded and smiled at us as Blake and I passed them on the way out the door into the chilly San Francisco night. It was March and in the evenings the temperature dropped to the forties with a chilling wet mist that blanketed pockets of the city. We were only a few blocks from the gallery that I had just signed a lease for on 16th Street and South Van Ness. Femina Potens was a DIY feminist art space that I had started nearly two years earlier. After begging and pleading with my father, I had convinced him to give me a $5,000 loan so I could lease our first official space in San Francisco. The first two fledgling years, we held pop-up gallery shows in alternative exhibition spaces, warehouses and lofts in San Francisco’s SOMA district. The $5,000 loan was a start on permanence, but it wouldn’t last us long in San Francisco. After first and last month’s rent and deposit, I only had enough money to get the gallery through three months.

  We walked up Dolores, a palm tree lined street, and crossed onto Market Street I smiled at the view, walking hand in hand with Blake, staring up at the huge rainbow gay pride flags, colorful beacons shining and leading us down our yellow brick road to the country’s gay Mecca.

  “It’s beautiful,” I said, shivering and staring up at one of the pride flags at Sanchez and Market. W
e were standing in front of Image Leather. I peeked inside, able to see through the window, as a man in jeans and an A-frame T-shirt cut a large sheet of leather and placed it under the needle of a sewing machine. It was 11:00 p.m. and this man was still hard at work, serving the queer community and paying the bills. His handlebar mustache reminded me of a Tom of Finland drawing. Every night in front of the leather shop, a homeless gentleman named Barry set up camp for the night. His long white beard was reminiscent of Walt Whitman. As I stood watching the leather man at work, Barry pulled out a pen and sketchpad from one of numerous bags stuffed in his shopping cart. I stared through the window, mesmerized by the leather floggers, belts, pants, shiny boots, and vests. Leather hide is tough and resilient, able to take a lashing, a beating, and still persevere. Barry began to draw and I patted my pockets looking for a dollar or change. There was none. I crossed my fingers that Blake was picking up the check.

  I felt comfortable enough to allow Blake not only full access to my body, but also to my psyche. I wanted to toy around with dominance and submission. I was ready to go further.

  The way the man in the window was illuminated in the dark night of the Castro emphasized his strong masculine figure, a pillar of strength, protection, and control. He was a leather man, a Daddy.

  In a moment of clarity I realized I wanted that, an iconic embodiment of masculinity. I wanted someone who could take control, someone who could look after this Little Girl and protect her from all the hurt in the world. Is Blake that person? Could she be my Daddy? It was too early to tell, but I thought her unpredictability and wild streak probably weighed against her reliability as a Daddy. Besides, Blake had many lovers, including a wife, two girlfriends, and a boyfriend. Blake and I were lovers and I was satisfied with that; I was buzzing with anticipation of uncovering our next adventure together and trying not to subject our relationship to too many expectations. I had just fought my way out of a very controlled childhood; I wasn’t about to go bounding into a whole new rigid relationship.