Daddy

by Madison Young

  I sobbed in reply, completely in love. I felt saved, rescued from the rest of life. Daddy clasped the collar around my neck while I held my long hair out of the way. He snapped the lock shut, and I was his.

  As he pet my head, he looked at me with a love and tenderness that had gone absent since our first months together in Seattle. I composed myself and relaxed, contented, into a smile.

  “Let’s take a look at you, huh?” Daddy exhaled, taking a step back, admiring his freshly collared service submissive and trying to collect himself emotionally, cameras still rolling. Other women may have experienced Mr. Mogul as a trainer, but we were experiencing a journey between two lovers, between a Daddy and his Little Girl. The earning of a first piece of leather is sacred. A collaring ceremony is a commitment, a dedication, strong as a wedding, a ceremony we had just shared. I was not just another girl, I belong to this Daddy. For one week I had allowed the cameras to document it, but the life that has opened before us is ours.

  “You earned your leather. This is a tradition handed down from others in our community and we try to keep it alive. I earned my leather, and now I’m handing that down to you. What are you feeling right now?” Daddy drew closer to my kneeling body and smiling face. He cradled my head as I gazed up at him, full of want and need, nuzzling my face, wet with tears, into his black slacks.

  “I feel happy,” I smiled, rubbing against his legs. I wanted our bodies coupled together. I was ready for our honeymoon.

  “Yeah? You look happy.” Daddy laughed and I wiped my eyes and stared up at him expectantly, ready for the camera crew to disappear. Together we built the infrastructure for our dominant and submissive roles, and now I was ready for our life to begin. Daddy’s eyes met mine and we kissed.

  He kissed me on the head and helped me up from the ground, and we walked off camera. Beyond the light stood the camera crew, he pulled me close to him, and I lost myself in him. “You’re a good girl,” he laughed, declaring: “Maddie, this is just the beginning.”

  “This is just the beginning,” I repeated.

  Every Wednesday Daddy and I practiced high protocol dominance and submission, whether or not Daddy and I were in the same room my focus returned to serving Daddy at 7:00 p.m. With ten minutes to spare I was seated on the floor, nude (except for my leather collar), my back pressed up against my desk and my shoulders hunched over my laptop in our penthouse apartment in downtown Oakland. My eyes focused on my computer screen as I tried to quickly move through the emails awaiting my attention. My assistant, Mev, a young vegan punk-rock queer artist from a small town in Texas, was returning the next morning to help me navigate through it all. Mev reminded me of myself when I was her age—young and determined, with a sense of honesty and integrity. She was a huge asset to both Femina Potens and my growing feminist erotic film production company.

  I finally found a balance between Los Angeles and San Francisco that put less strain on my body and my psyche. I became less reliant on getting paid for scenes and supplemented my income teaching sexuality workshops at conferences and universities and directing films for Good Vibrations, the local women-owned sex toy store. When I worked in L.A., I used my own tools—just as I used to have a porno toolbox with baby wipes, lube and enemas, I had developed a toolbox of communication skills that helped me navigate porn scenes in a healthier way. I learned to guide my porn partners step by step through how my body worked, encouraging them with coos and moans and, in turn, listening attentively as they guided me to their orgasms.

  But Wednesday nights weren’t about work, they were about service. We kept our dominant/submissive agreement in a simple white three-ring binder on the desk among shot lists, porn scripts, submission forms for erotic film festivals, and paperwork waiting to be filed. The binder, labeled simply “The Handbook” in black permanent marker, was a living archive and manual of our relationship. Inside it I slipped ongoing revisions of our dominant/submissive agreement, as well as service-oriented homework assignments and research Daddy assigned me. We revised and revisited our dominant/submissive agreement every two months, setting an expiration date and a promised revisiting date for the document, then signed it.

  We both were trying to learn new sets of behaviors and routines that served our relationship and our kink for service and submission. Sometimes we needed to make adjustments along the way. How long were certain rules sustainable? When I strained my IT band, causing pain and weakness in my left knee, we changed the rule “submissive will always wear heels in public when accompanying Sir” to “submissive will wear flat ballet slippers, provided by Sir, when present in public with Sir.” When I wanted to cut down on my consumption of alcohol, coffee, and chocolate, I requested that it be added to our agreement that I needed to ask for and receive permission from Mr. Mogul before consuming any of the above decadent items. It was sexy for a while, and it worked. I wouldn’t take a sip of wine or a bite of an energy bar that had cocoa in it, not without Daddy nodding his head to permit my indulgence. When the rule became labor intensive (with exhausting cross-country travel for shoots that required caffeine just to keep my eyes open) we adjusted. Some rules, like “submissive will ask permission from Sir before using furniture, unless refraining from using furniture will result in making someone else uncomfortable” or “submissive will serve Sir every Wednesday at 7:00 p.m.” we found easier to maintain. Nearly a year after the first edition of our agreement and my collaring, we developed a steady and adjustable routine that worked for us.

  Daddy was late for our dinner on this particular evening, which was becoming more and more normal. Mr. Mogul’s work often required him to stay late, Wednesday or not. I started to prepare our home for Daddy’s arrival. I fetched the leather cuffs from our closet, and placed them on his chair. I crawled under the dining room table and moved my dog bed out from under it, placing the large moss-green bed, fit for a full-grown Labrador, at the foot of his chair. I scurried about, fetching clean white towels from the linen closet and placing them in the bathroom. Daddy would want a shower when he returned home. I placed my stainless steel engraved dog bowl beside the dog bed—I purchased it from the Lillian Vernon catalogue, and got quite a kick out of requesting the name “SLUT” to be engraved on the dish. I collected vanilla-scented lotion and placed them by the couch where I would remove Daddy’s boots. There were wicker baskets full of coiled rope in both the bedroom and dining room, next to Daddy’s chair, as well as large floor vases, one in each room, containing a variety of canes.

  At 7:20 p.m. I hadn’t yet heard from Daddy. I sunk into my latest service related assignment—becoming familiar with how to manipulate a flogger with ease. The phone rang, “Maddie, I’m so sorry I’m late. I hope you haven’t been waiting long. Let me make it up to you. How does a seitan fillet at Soizic sound?”

  Daddy knew the way to my heart, and I was practically starving by the time I heard his voice. “That sounds so good, Daddy. Guess what? I’m practicing my flogging.”

  “Watch out world, my Little Girl has got a whip! Slip on some clothes and meet me at the restaurant, okay sweetheart?” Daddy cheered into the phone, elated at making up for his tardiness at one of my favorite East Bay restaurants.

  I slipped on a silk, knee-length dress Daddy bought for me in a lovely vintage robin’s egg blue, without panties, and the black, flat dress shoes Daddy picked out for me. I loved being his doll, his Little Girl to dress as he wished.

  Soizic was bustling with its usual late-night crowd and a loud bunch who had taken up camp in the bar area overwhelmed the space. I spotted Daddy and approached our table, discreetly standing at attention, my hands folded behind my back.

  “Sir,” I nodded, greeting my lover.

  “Slut,” he nodded greeting me back. “You may sit.”

  Our lives weren’t always so formal. Wednesday nights were special occasions. We knew that this type of protocol wouldn’t last on a day-to-day basis for the long term. There we
re nights when we cuddled up on the couch watching Tarantino movies and evenings we worked together in the kitchen to make Tofurkey dinner. We huddled around the dining room table to coordinate events or work on stronger infrastructure for the gallery. In our relationship as lovers and domestic partners, there was no submissive. I looked to my partner for mentorship and advice, but with mutual respect and in a space of equality. It was one of the reasons that Wednesday nights were both comforting and sexually exciting: Daddy and I tested the power dynamics in our relationship, the gender roles that prevailed in our world and society, and what people often thought of as normal, rearranging and assembling them into something that we could use. We played within a safe space we created, and in the process we tested ourselves, discovered our own psychological boundaries and touched upon some unexpected turn-ons.

  The pilot didn’t want to land the plane and I couldn’t blame him. Six degrees in Ohio in the winter wasn’t unusual, but it chilled me to the bone. California sunshine and temperate conditions were home to me now: a moderate fifty degrees with light showers and fog that spilled in off the bay over the city like pea soup. The yearlong, moderate weather patterns in the Bay Area leave you with a feeling of consistency; you come to know the city’s climate. The warmth of the Mission, the chill of Twin Peaks, and the surprisingly biting wind that comes off the ocean’s waves create a sense of timelessness; the seasons seem to blend together. Six degrees was unheard of in San Francisco—at forty-eight degrees I was usually bundled up tight with a scarf and ski jacket—so James and I knew we needed to be prepared for Ohio. This would be Mr. Mogul’s first trip to my hometown, his first time meeting my father and my family. We loaded up Christmas presents and armored ourselves with thick tights, sweatpants, boots, sweaters, scarves, gloves, and hats.

  Packed tightly into our luggage among the warm clothes was perfume for my mother, a Velvet Underground CD for my brother, and a watch for my father. James had bought my father a nice watch with a brown leather band and large numbers big enough for my dad to see without straining his eyes. It was a gift, a token of gratitude, a firm handshake and a pat on the back. Hopefully it would help start a bond between the men in my life, my Daddies.

  The roads were precarious as we made our way to the Butcher’s Christmas Eve dinner. The asphalt was dangerous and iced over, not meant for cars or people. This was hot cocoa weather, stay-inside-until-it-blows-over weather. Dad had been out all day salting clients’ driveways with Madison Tree Service; he often did this to keep the business solvent during the winter months, when gardens and maple trees were hibernating.

  James and I pulled up to Aunt Darlene’s house. The long driveway was filled with cars that had delivered more than twenty-five of my grandmother’s grandchildren, along with their parents. As James parked the car and cut the engine, I took a deep breath and grabbed his hand. I looked down at the ring he had given me just that morning, a golden rope encrusted with diamonds. It may not have satiated the ache around my bare neck, but it was a beautiful symbol of our love and commitment to each other, to be worn when the collar was tucked away. He could see that I was still nervous and he grabbed a pen from his bag, hiked up my dress, and scribbled “MINE” onto my upper thigh. I smiled and kissed him deeply.

  My black high heels punctured the ice and snow as we made our way up the walkway. My father’s sister lived in a majestic, canary yellow house set on a large plot of land that stretched into the woods. It was a perfect playground for us as children. Built in the early 1900s, the house and the décor were traditional and worldly. The living room held an eclectic mix: a large floor vase from Asia, small sculptural pieces from South America, photography from Venezuela, and family photos.

  I opened the door, “Hello?” unsure if anyone would recognize me after my four-year absence.

  The house bustled with energy. Children I had yet to meet scurried about discovering all the magical, unknown places hidden in Darlene’s vast home. I heard mothers call after their children, attempting to rein them in.

  The large dining table was set with china and silverware. It felt familiar, yet completely foreign. It was hard to remember this life. This was Tina Butcher’s life, not Madison Young’s. I felt like a ghost among my family. There was a gap between them and me and it was possible that my life just wouldn’t translate into their language. I took James’ hand and led him into the kitchen.

  “Hello, everyone.”

  Women filled the room, stirring the gravy and preparing the food for the buffet in serving dishes, bouncing babies to keep them from crying. Men nibbled at the food before they were supposed to. I caught my dad with his hands in the pretzel bowl and he gave me a proper greeting.

  “Snaggletooth! How’s my pumpkin? Give your dad a hug.”

  “Hey Dad, I missed you.” With his arms wrapped tightly around me I was flooded with memories. Fond memories of his bear hugs and resentment toward the distance between us since my move to San Francisco. His phone calls were few and far between. His life occupied with a new family: his new wife, Lynn, only two years my senior. Lynn and her two sisters, along with her mother and father, had all moved into his new home from a small village in Cambodia. My father met their family while traveling with his best friend, Dave, and fell in love almost instantaneously. He stayed in Cambodia for two months, courting Lynn before deciding to make her his wife. It was not a traditional courtship, but very little about my father was traditional. I liked that about him. I wanted my dad to be happy, but I felt like he stopped supporting my dreams after I crossed Ohio state lines.

  “This is James, Dad. He’s the guy that I’ve been telling you about.”

  “You’re not a vegetarian,” he demanded, “are you?”

  “No, sir. I enjoy a good steak.”

  My dad turned to me, “I like him.”

  “Let’s go hunting next time you’re in town,” Dad said, then reached for the turkey and got his hand swatted away by Aunt Darlene.

  “Not yet, Richard!”

  “Tina, it’s good to see you!” My cousin Robin came in with a smile, wiping drool from her baby’s mouth as she bounced him on her hip. She was pregnant with her second child. Since I left I’d missed her wedding, the birth of her first child, and her father’s funeral. A lot can happen in four years. The kitchen had been remodeled and expanded, and the spot where the kitchen table now sat was Robin’s playroom when we were kids. I used to get so excited about her board games, she had every one—Candyland, Chutes and Ladders, Hungry Hungry Hippos, Monopoly, and The Game of Life. We would make slushies with her Snoopy ice machine and I would dream about what it must be like to have so many toys that you needed a separate room for them.

  I sat down at the kitchen table and Robin turned to me.

  “So what’s going on in your life, Tina? I haven’t seen you in forever.”

  “What’s my life like? In San Francisco? I’m in love. James and I have been together for over three years now and I love him with all my heart...um, the gallery is doing really well...We’ve been getting press and write-ups in some pretty big magazines...I’m doing a show with HBO, teaching workshops on art and sex, finishing my book, and Dave Navarro is hosting this show featuring the gallery and I’ll be doing this aerial performance while he’s there. Other than that I’m working on a few films that will be screening at film festivals in New York and Paris...I’m touring Europe this summer and reading from my book...I’m keeping busy.” I rambled nervously. “Is this little Jackson?”

  Robin looked at me for a minute, trying to align my schedule with hers. Her belly, swollen with another child, bulged out under her sweater.

  “Wow! Those are big things. Those are California things. They aren’t Ohio things.”

  “Yes, but love, people still fall in love here in Ohio, don’t they?”

  “Are you two planning on getting married?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “D
o you want to have children?”

  We were conveniently interrupted by my Aunt Darlene wielding a camera, “Go stand next to your dad, Tina.”

  It is Madison who smiled for the camera; a confident and beautiful woman standing next to the man she has looked up to since she was a child—her protector, who still smelled like rope and licorice, just a couple pounds heavier, hair thinning, glasses thicker as age had ruined his vision.

  My aunts, uncles, cousins, nieces, and nephews soon gather around their food, chatting about who would be going off to college and who would be getting married, new jobs, new vacations, and the newest sales at JCPenney’s. My voice got lost at this dinner table, and I eagerly filled my mouth with food to silence the awkwardness I felt.

  The next day, rested and ready for more family time, we arrived at my mother’s house for Christmas dinner. My mother unlocked and unbolted the door, already apologizing.

  “Well, nothing is done...I still have to finish the cookies, the turkey still needs to go in the oven, I have no idea how to make your vegan thing and the house is a mess—a mess!”

  Good to see you too, Mom.

  It was always like this. My mother was always overwhelmed, stressed, and complaining. She has a lot of love to give but it’s hidden under a blanket of anxiety that is contagious: the house oozes with it, constant disappointment and frantic energy. My brother was just back from rehab, suffering from depression and co-dependency, and my mother lost herself in her usual whirlwind of panic. Between the two of them they had built a cyclone of controlling, manic energy that wreaked havoc on their environment.

  James whispered in my ear, “And there is no booze? I have to do this sober?”

  The saving grace was my father, the voice of reason, sleepy-eyed from salting driveways all night but standing in the foyer welcoming us. My mother and father may have divorced one another years ago, but we are still a family. Their shared experiences give them a history and our holidays are always spent together. My mother may never forget my father’s indiscretions but she did find it in her heart to forgive him. My father’s humor is a calming compliment to my mother’s fiery energy. Her anxiety comes from a well-meaning place, I know that now, fueled by the want for things to be perfect. She wants to create perfect memories, with smiling photographs and beautifully decorated Christmas trees.