Daddy

by Madison Young

  “Totally. I brought some black nitrile gloves and a lube that I really like, it’s organic.” Gala’s eyes lit up as we continued our conversation. I could tell that, like me, she was not someone who just enjoyed pleasure and sex, but was a sexual enthusiast.

  “Perfect. What about condoms for toys, or should we just use our own toys?”

  “I did bring some condoms if you would like to share but I’m pretty comfortable just using my own toys...or just hands. Hands are my preference.”

  “I’m comfortable without dental dams since we are both tested. Did you see my test downstairs?” Gala asked while methodically organizing her dildos and vibrators into a straight line on a clean towel beside the bed. We were just two girls sitting on the bed talking about sex. I was excited to be touched again, by hands other than my own.

  A few moments later, Richard returned and adjusted the lights. “Did you two have a chance to talk?”

  “Yes, thank you, Richard.” Gala smiled and adjusted her bra strap, which had fallen from her delicate shoulders.

  “Is there anything specific I should keep in mind?” I asked. It was my first time working with him.

  “If you can try not to face that corner, we don’t have a lot of light in that direction. But other than that, just take your time and be yourselves. I’m going to turn on the cameras and then I’ll go downstairs to give you two your privacy. I’ll come back up in forty minutes. Sound good?” I nodded my head and placed my hand on Gala’s bare thigh.

  Richard’s smile was warm and comforting. He was the antithesis of a typical pornographer, polite and political while at the same time a businessman. He didn’t feel like an artist or a capitalist money-driven pornographer, his was a personality that was hard to pin down. He had built a strong, confident, successful business, and employed a team of ten twenty- to thirty-five-year-old confident, intelligent women, all of whom wanted to make a difference in the international conversation about sexuality. Their network of sites was tasteful and filled with beauty: faces of mostly unknown women and men who courageously stepped in front of the camera to document honest moments in their sex lives. It was a wonderful message amid a culture that lacks the language to talk about desire in a healthy, non-shaming manner, and Richard wanted to help change that. I was excited to be part of his endeavor.

  My body tingled as Gala removed my slip. I was in my fifth month of pregnancy and my rotund abdomen was taking shape. I took several pillows and used them to prop myself up, Gala watching with a girlish grin. Reclining onto the pillows, I slowly spread my thighs. I reached for the massage oil and drizzled it onto my breasts. My eyes closed and I exhaled as I cupped my tender breasts in my hands, massaging the warm oil onto them. I purred, getting lost in the moment, the sensitive, supple flesh rippling under my curious fingers. I opened my eyes to find Gala’s patient, eager, attentive eyes transfixed on my body, enjoying the show. I called her forth with come hither fingers and a ravenous voice that reverberated from deep within. “Come here, I want you close to me.”

  Her hands cautiously touched my thighs and I nodded, smiling, “Yes, please.” She smiled back, her eyes connecting with mine, reading my body language.

  After the young woman pleasured me, I rolled over on my side, exhausted, flushed with endorphins and feeling blissful and at peace with the world. Gala’s naked body was coupled with mine. Her arms were wrapped around me, holding me close, and I felt safe in this woman’s arms even though we’d only just met. I took her hand from my shoulder and kissed her palm. Every touch was full of intention, warmth, and kindness. I felt like she needed affirmation and love as much as I did. I rolled over and pinned Gala on her back. I was a cat with a delicious bird in my yard and I intended to swat her around before I devoured her in a petite mort.

  With a smile I looked at her, really looked at her. I looked into her eyes, green and full of life; she had excitement and a future sure of success; bright and inspired, I couldn’t wait to see what she would accomplish.

  “Yes, please,” she said quietly, pleading. I was enraptured by her simple, raw, unaltered beauty. I slapped her lightly and gauged how she processed the new sensation. She moaned and her eyes danced with adrenaline. I laughed and slapped her harder. I squirted some lube onto my hand and slid my hand inside her, drizzling more lubrication onto her cunt, which quickly blossomed and engulfed my fingers. Gala moaned as I massaged her vulva, periodically dipping into her cunt. She reached for her Magic Wand and used the vibrator on her clitoris. With my gloved fingers I curved around her engorged g-spot and explored her with a handful of techniques, gauging her response, moving with confidence. Gala grasped onto the sheets and tears streamed down her face as my hands moved, stimulating her and pumping in and out of her cunt. Her small mouth opened and a scream escaped as hot glandular fluid flooded onto my hands and thighs. It continued to fountain from her, spraying my face, my breasts, and dripping down my baby bump. I lay down next to her drenched, shaking body. It was the second time that day that I had been baptized. Covered in sweat and sex, I brought her lips to mine, kissing her and stroking her hair. I felt the fluttering of a new generation of women just emerging, and the light movements of my daughter in my uterus.

  Sitting at a small kitchen table, scribbling notes in my journal, I looked out the window onto the wet cobblestone streets of Amsterdam. Women and men on bicycles pedaled past the narrow three-story apartment. Autumn leaves were falling from the trees that lined the canal, creating pillows of muted warm golden hues and earthy oranges that drifted past the small boats that filled the canal with visitors.

  I’d arrived at Jennifer’s apartment three days earlier. The flight from Australia was long, over twenty hours spent on multiple planes with a long layover in Malaysia. I had suffered nosebleeds from the altitude, the dry recycled airplane air, and the increased blood supply circulating through my pregnant body. Still, I made it to Amsterdam and found my way to Jennifer’s cozy apartment safely. A single room provided a space for family, dining, and a kitchen; a nursery and bedroom occupied the upstairs.

  Jennifer was a new mother and erotic filmmaker living in Amsterdam with her husband, Jeffrey, who worked for an advertising agency, and their six-month-old daughter Madelief. Originally from the Bay Area, she made annual visits back to visit family and connect with other feminist pornographers. Jennifer is short in stature with a radiant smile, warm eyes, and chestnut tinted locks in a pixie cut. I met Jennifer while she was pregnant and in San Francisco working on a documentary on feminism and submission; she asked to interview me for the film. I instantly adored the independent and sharp-witted artist. She’s a politically fierce feminist with the brains to back up her politics.

  Needs for tonight:

  Grape juice

  Grape flavored bubble gum

  Enema bottles

  Lube

  Grapes

  I was jotting down a shopping list for the evening’s performance in my journal. I would be leaving in the next hour for the all-day private event, in which I was presenting a performance in collaboration with Annie and Beth’s purple wedding. Annie and Beth were marrying the moon this time, in association with the purple chakra. They were being married in Los Angeles at Highways Theater and although I wouldn’t be there in person I agreed to do a performance in Amsterdam in conjunction with the wedding.

  Jennifer came carefully down the stairs, Madelief held close to her chest. She exhaled in a calming shhhh sound, which seemed as much for the baby’s benefit as to calm her own nerves. A sleepy grin shaped her mouth and grew into a yawn as she stared down at Madelief. She looked tired.

  I shut my laptop, fascinated by the small child, who had abandoned her rattle and raised her body up into a downward dog-type of yogic position, which seemed impressive for an infant not even six months in age. Is it impressive? Is it typical? I wasn’t really sure, I hadn’t gotten that far in my reading. I was still struggling with my changing, p
regnant body and the looming, mind-blowing concept that I would be pushing a seven to eight pound person out through my vagina. I had to take each moment as it arrived.

  I smiled and sat down on the floor beside Madelief. I was taken by her complete wonder at everything. Her eyes were wide and dancing while she giggled and rolled. Her young life was small and safe and filled with the wonder of discovery and of testing her limits. I closed my eyes and held my hand to my belly. I’m growing one of those. I would be bringing something beautiful and simple into this chaotic and complicated world, and I knew I would give her all of my love.

  “You can touch her. It’s okay. She’s not going to bite.” Jennifer laughed as she curled up onto the couch.

  “Do you want to hold her?”

  “I’m afraid I might break her. I’ve never really held a baby before.” How exactly is it that you hold a baby? Isn’t there something about their head or their neck? Parts of their bodies are still forming. I was terrified.

  “You’re not going to break her,” Jennifer assured me and plucked Madelief up from the ground to place her in my arms. She was warm pressed against my chest. She examined my face with her tiny hands and grabbed my long hair. I laughed and at the same time felt a bit panicky. Madelief’s face scrunched up like she was about to sneeze, but instead white fluid projected from her mouth onto my sweatshirt.

  “Oh, wasn’t expecting that,” I said. “I guess that’s something I’ll have to get used to.” I held the baby away from my body and an amused Jennifer returned her to her crib. She wiped the spit-up from the corner of Madelief’s mouth and handed me a soft, pink tissue. I wiped the mess up and tossed the soiled sweatshirt aside. I rummaged around for something to wear for the evening’s event; it should’ve been purple to fit in with the theme.

  “Do you need something to wear for tonight?” Jennifer asked. It seemed like every day my limited wardrobe became even more limited as pants became tighter and dresses became obscene on my ever-expanding body.

  Jennifer handed me a deep purple, empire waist dress, “I was going to get rid of this, but if you fit it, you should wear it tonight. It’s one of my maternity dresses. I wore it to a wedding I went to when I was pregnant.”

  I loved it. I loved the dress and the memory we would share with it. It felt loving and nurturing to have support from someone who had been in the aching throes of pregnancy not so long ago. By chance I had fallen into the warm home of an erotic filmmaker who was balancing both a family and a sexual life.

  I shed my tights and dress. My skin was stretched tight around my protruding abdomen. I was round, bottom, belly, and breasts. Jennifer unzipped the purple dress and I stepped into the loose flowing fabric, it felt light and delicate on my skin. I felt confident in my expanding body, like a new goddess was forming, imperfections and all. I knew that not everyone in the adult industry would share this same acceptance of change and flaws, but none of that seemed to matter.

  “You know, I still feel pretty clueless about being a mom, too.” Jennifer gave me a reassuring smile and zipped up the dress, resting her hand on my shoulder. “Biology has a funny way of kicking in and teaching you a thing or two. We are meant to survive.” I smiled and nodded, less than certain about what my own journey to motherhood might look like.

  “You can’t take liquids on the plane, Miss.”

  The airport security agent pulled a thermos filled with frozen breast milk out of my carry-on. My pornography DVDs and compartments full of assorted dental dams and condoms went untouched and unnoticed, but traveling with a thermos full of Jennifer’s frozen breast milk raised red flags. I was on my way to the Berlin Porn Film Festival where seven films that I had either directed or starred in were screening. This year there would be a special honor. I was one of two filmmakers “in focus” and was giving a special presentation on my body of work as well as screening a small selection of my favorite scenes from films that I directed over the years. Jennifer asked if I could bring more of her frozen milk from the apartment to her and Madelief, who were already in Berlin.

  “It’s not a liquid. It’s a solid. It’s frozen breast milk.” I looked at the TSA agent, indignant and frustrated. I’ve never done well with authority figures; I don’t trust them. My story has never been one where officers were fighting for justice. I’ve come to know officers in a different role. In my circles, officers are not there to build community or provide safe harbor for creativity. They’re there to police it.

  “I’ll need to consult with my manager about this.” The stocky, broad-shouldered man towered above me in his white uniform and cap as he radioed his manager.

  I looked down at my watch, the silver bangle a gift from Daddy. Only thirty-five minutes until my flight was going to depart from Amsterdam to Berlin. I didn’t have time. He moved my thermos and backpack onto another table away from the conveyer belt where passengers were quickly gathering their scanned belongings and scurrying off to their respective gates of departure. I felt helpless, like a threatened child, still reliving the pain of hard-to-swallow memories.

  I was four years old, sitting on a long wooden pew in the courtroom, holding onto my Grandma Virginia’s cold, bony hand while officers of the law decided whether or not my Dad was allowed to see me. The bones in my grandmother’s right hand had become sculptural, protruding and angular, the results of a time when my mother’s birth father, Bill, tried to sever my Grandmother’s hand from her body with a butcher knife in a drunken rage. My mother, then only five years old, buried her head under her pillow in hysterics. The police never came, but Bill left the apartment never to return. My Grandmother’s neighbor drove her to the hospital where doctors tried to mend her mangled hand. After months of rehabilitation she still needed to learn to write with her left hand. I loved my Grandmother and I loved her strength; I clung on to her misshapen right hand and watched as my father was ushered into the courtroom by police officers to a chair beside the judge’s stand. My mother was seated beside her lawyer as the custody proceedings continued. I remember the uniformed officer’s cold, dark stare instilling fear in me while my father’s visitation rights were decided by a system I was powerlessly subjected to.

  “Try to calm down, miss, and we will get you on your plane. Can you show me your passport, please?” I scowled and handed the officer my passport.

  “So what seems to be the problem here?” The officer’s manager asked as he approached. My heart was already racing, adrenaline pumping furiously through my veins, blood rushing to my head. My mouth was parched from the long wait and mounting anxiety about missing my flight.

  I was beginning to draw attention from the eyes of other passengers, which made me feel trapped and vulnerable. The two officers towered over me, “I’m trying to get on my flight to Berlin. I’m presenting a film there tomorrow and I’m bringing this frozen breast milk to my friend for her child. She’s at the same festival and she forgot the breast milk at her house.”

  The officer thumbed through my passport and investigated the frozen breast milk, banging the frozen packets against the table, “So where is the baby?”

  “With her mother in Berlin! She needs this breast milk for her baby, that’s why I’m bringing the milk! Oh my God, this is ridiculous.”

  “Wait here.” The officer replied and walked away, leaving me to wait for a decision. I know their minds are made up. I’m not getting on that plane. The only question that remained was how, exactly, was I was going to get out of this situation.

  “Yeah, Ma’am, we are going to need to take the milk. We can’t allow you through with that. It’s a liquid. We will give you your passport once you calm down.” The manager placed his hands on my shoulders, leaning down close to my face softly whispering. “You should really try a breath mint. Your breath stinks.”

  I closed my eyes and cringed in embarrassment. The on-lookers peered from the security line, but no one dared interfere. I filled with rage as I
looked at the blank stares on the faces of these smug white men. I became intimately familiar with power exchange as Daddy and I delved deep into the world of dominance and submission, but our power exchange came from a place of love and trust, and was met with mutual consent. A uniform and a shiny badge seem like nothing more than an outward declaration of unearned power and exemplified ego. There was no consent.

  At a table in the food court, peeling rubbery cheese off of a slice of vegetarian pizza, I booked myself a train ticket and emailed the director of the film festival. I wouldn’t be arriving until the following afternoon, but I would have Jennifer’s breast milk in hand. I was beyond exasperated by what just happened, and vividly recalled my last confrontation with the police, at a recent performance art piece staged by a queer Japanese-American artist at a bustling exhibition at my gallery.

  The gallery was full of people dressed to the nines in latex and corsets, admiring photography by legendary photographer and fetishist, Fakir Musafar. Fakir had been at the cutting edge of body modification, corsetry, scarification, and ritualistic hook suspensions fifty years ago when the world was even less kind to those existing outside normativity. He was a brave pioneer, a sexual outlaw, and now this seventy-year-old vivacious sprite of a man was exhibiting legendary art works on the walls of Femina Potens. Onlookers laughed and smiled, drinking champagne and watching impromptu rope bondage and performance art. I was naked, pink rope marks still imprinted around my thighs, wrists, and wrapped around my torso. I was monitoring the audience, the volunteers, and the elegant performance that Midori produced with the collaborative efforts of her rope bottom, Nikki Nefarious. I was watching, mesmerized, as the two danced with the rope in a lovely intimate tango, when the San Francisco Police Department barged abruptly into the midst of their dance, dressed head to toe in riot gear, and dragged audience members kicking and screaming from our safe haven into the street. I was paralyzed with fear, naked and shaking, in a state of complete vulnerability. While I tried to gather my thoughts and dress my naked body, Amnesty International pamphlets were tossed into the air and Midori disrupted the panicked audience with these important words, “This was a reminder my friends. Consensual kink is a privilege not to be taken for granted, but a lifestyle to cherish and protect.”