Daddy

by Madison Young

  I finally made it to the Berlin Porn Film Festival and I had to pee. I squirmed back and forth on a metal folding chair behind a long wooden table. Row upon row of red velvet theater seats in a large screening room were filled with people. A microphone sat before me in the off position, awaiting my commentary on the scene that was playing in the movie theater.

  My frequency of urination increased drastically in a matter of only a few weeks, but at this point there was no way out. The audience was immersed in a scene between Daddy and me in The Curse of Macbeth, a kinky post-apocalyptic re-envisioning of Shakespeare’s classic tragedy. I would be answering questions from the audience after the screening.

  Sadie, my fellow Queer X Tour alumna and performance art compatriot, was sitting in the dark theater in the front row, smiling. Sadie recently moved to Berlin after the Queer X Tour and it was comforting to see her familiar face.

  As a theater major in college, I felt personal gratification for fulfilling the sought-after role of the power-hungry Lady Macbeth. The image of my seductress self projected onto the huge theater screen felt distant and removed from the world I now lived in. The reel felt like a collection of remote images of my previous life. Lady Macbeth embodied sin and indulgence, but I didn’t need to play the role of leading lady anymore. I felt content in building my own world, a little less glamorous than post-apocalyptic Shakespearean porn, but much more intimate and personal.

  As the character played by James stumbled to his tragic death on the large screen, I was boxed in behind the table with no escape. It seemed ironic and darkly humorous. It felt like part of Daddy had died and I had to wonder if I was just torturing myself, trying to resuscitate a body that had been left behind; I would find out soon enough. In a few days I’d be home again, and I hoped I would find a spark of life in Daddy’s eyes again. Right now, I needed to get out.

  I looked around me to see if there was anything that I might pee into. A cup? A popcorn box? The water bottles that were left at the table for filmmakers and panelists have too narrow of an opening. I looked behind me at the glowing red exit sign. Can I make it out the door without anyone noticing? I have to try. I snuck out the theater’s emergency exit and into the alley, slipping off one high heel to prop open the emergency door.

  I hiked up my dress to around my belly and removed my black and white polka-dotted panties. Propping one foot up on a pile of dismantled cardboard boxes and plastic milk crates, I exhaled in relief as my pee sprayed forth onto the cement alley wall blemished with spray-painted tags. As I watched the golden shower run down the wall, I felt powerful. I was no dainty porn princess anymore, nor was I a fragile, pregnant housewife in need of coddling. I owned my pregnancy, my body, and I would learn how to parent in my own way. I hoped that vision would include James. I was familiar with the ache of growing up with a distant father and I didn’t want to pass that pain on to my daughter.

  I could hear my Lady Macbeth’s moans spilling, muffled into the alley through the crack in the door. I knew the scene by heart, and it was almost over. I pulled up my panties, slipped on my shoe and slipped back into the cold metal folding chair. I gazed out at the dimly lit audience whose mouths hang open as, onscreen, I screamed out in orgasm.

  Watching the luggage carousel going round and round from my seat on the musty, carpeted airport floor and surrounded by a protective wall of my luggage I texted Daddy, “Are you coming?” It had been an hour since my plane landed in San Francisco, and nearly two months since I had been home. There was no sign of him.

  Daddy promised to be there, but these days I tried not to invest too much into his words. I was treading forward with caution. I watched as a young man in his twenties with dark curls and black Buddy Holly eyeglasses shuffled back and forth awkwardly near the carousel, likely awaiting the arrival of his lover, with a bouquet of cheap red roses. I glanced down at my phone again and hung my head. I didn’t know where to go. I was waiting for Daddy. Will he ever come? It had been months since I’d seen his face but his sporadic emails and texts expressed his love for me and had given me hope. I looked down at my belly, six months pregnant; the feel of thumping fists and feet in my uterus reminded me that another life was taking shape. I closed my eyes and held my hand to my belly, awaiting her response.

  “Hi, Maddie.” The sound of his voice was so textured with emotion and turmoil that I couldn’t open my eyes. I’m not sure if he’s really there, but I don’t want this to be a dream.

  “Daddy?” I asked, smiling.

  “Yes, Maddie. Daddy’s here.” He rested his hand on my shoulder and in that moment I felt her kick.

  “Daddy, she’s kicking.” His familiar callused hand gently landed on my belly, my fingers threaded between his. I opened my eyes, my hand in his, and looked up at him.

  I watched as a young woman on a bicycle dismounted in front of our building from my seat in the window. I speared another piece of pineapple and look over at Daddy to see if he would answer the ringing doorbell. He was engrossed by the glowing screen of his laptop, watching a black and white World War II documentary.

  I crushed chunks of fruit between my teeth in an attempt to hydrate my constantly thirsty, ever growing, pregnant body. Depositing the fruit on the hope chest, I grabbed two twenties from an envelope in the top desk drawer and slipped on my pregnancy shoes, Mary Jane style reinforced heels made with a charcoal gray tweed fabric. Slowly, carefully, I descended the staircase to meet the delivery girl who brushed her dark, choppy bangs out of her eyes and handed me a large brown paper bag.

  I returned with the bag full of food from my favorite taquería in the Haight. I lay the food out on the table like a buffet. Chips, guacamole, a vegetarian burrito with avocado and mango salsa, lemonade with three cubes of ice, and a side of pitted olives marinated in spicy chilies.

  I gained forty pounds in seven months and was stretching all of my sweater dresses and empire waist gowns to accommodate. The doctors assured me I was healthy and that my baby was healthy, but it looked like I might be expecting a larger than average baby. Nothing about me or James has ever been average, so why would I expect that our child would be any different?

  Even seven months pregnant I was making trips down to Los Angeles to perform in pornographic magazine shoots and lesbian erotic films. At my last porn shoot, I studied my naked body in the bathroom mirror, watching as my shape shifted, my little girl poking through with an elbow, a punch, or a kick. My hips were thick and wide, my thighs and ass full. I closed my eyes and touched my body, repeating a little mantra: “You are beautiful. You are radiant. You are full of life. You are just as you should be,” before stepping onto set with a nineteen year old who still wore a size zero and weighed in at under a hundred pounds. It took courage for me to reveal my body next to hers, to feel as if I had something to offer.

  As I made my way into the beginning of the third trimester of my pregnancy, I found that my cravings became more intense. I needed sour, sweet, spicy, and creamy, my needs and desires shifting by the moment. In one minute Chilean vegan hot dogs topped with tomatoes, creamy sliced avocado, and vegannaise were all that I wanted, the next moment I found them revolting. One minute I craved Daddy’s mouth on my tits and his hands at my cunt and the next I couldn’t forgive him and his face nauseated me. There was only one constant: pancakes. I always wanted pancakes.

  I sat down on the couch and draped a pink crocheted baby blanket over my legs. I carried this blanket with me my entire life. I can recall my mother tucking me in at night under it, I used to recite my prayers and wish on the bright stars that I could see from my bedroom window for my dad to come back home. Even when my mind wandered over his absence and my heart ached, under that cover I felt safe and secure. It was an object that held memories of my life before he left, when our family was complete. I looked forward to passing the blanket down to my daughter in only a few months.

  The thirty-two inch flat screen television offered a
welcome distraction to the tension that filled the apartment. The apartment had gone quiet in Daddy’s absence and the absurd reality shows that littered the television networks offered a reprieve. It was the first television that I had owned in the nine years that I lived in San Francisco.

  I bit into the thick burrito causing a small avalanche of beans and salsa. Anything that landed below my belly no longer existed. I could barely see my feet when standing up. I was watching a movie in which a young couple, a boy and a girl around eighteen, were laughing together and running down a wet and rainy street. He scooped her up in his arms and twirled her around in circles, pulling her close, looking into her eyes, and kissing her passionately. I scooped another chunk of guacamole and glanced over at Daddy.

  The boy and the girl in the movie were being kept apart by their families, one coming from nothing and the other from wealth. A riff on Romeo and Juliet. I never tire of stories about star-crossed lovers. James’ documentary exploded from his computer speakers, gunfire beginning an audible battle against the sobbing and emotional urgency emanating from the television.

  “Ahhh! James can you turn that down?” I shouted, pelting a spicy olive at his hooded head. He stood up from the desk and threw me a piercing look with cold, sharp eyes, then retreated to the bathroom with his laptop.

  James and I were in our own war, our own face-off. I was waiting for his return, not quite knowing what to expect. As I watched him storm down the hallway and slam the bathroom door without a word, I just wanted acknowledgment. I missed being loved, being held, I missed Daddy, my Daddy. I stood up and tiptoed over to his desk, where I rummaged through his drawers, hoping for a clue. I opened a familiar envelope that read “To Mr. Mogul, From your devoted little girl.” Unfolding the letter that seemed like it was written so long ago, I realized I composed it when I was three months pregnant. At the time, I hadn’t heard from him in ten days and I was worried. I wrote the letter and shoved it under his locked office door at the Armory. In the vastness of a castle, my letter seemed as useless as a message in a bottle. “I love you Daddy and I believe in you. I will always believe in you. You are my family and family doesn’t disappear when things get rough. I’m here for you. Yours always, your devoted Little Girl—Maddie.”

  Until now, I hadn’t even been sure that he ever got the letter, or that it meant anything to him. I allowed my fingers to linger over the words, smiling at the thought that, perhaps, this letter gave him hope, and returned it to its place.

  I heard James steps coming down the hall, his feet squeaky on the wooden floor. He watched me watching the movie from the doorway for a moment before entering with a pint of vegan ice cream and a spoon.

  The protagonist in the story grabbed the woman in his arms, “Look around, Allie. I built this house for you, for us!”

  James interrupted the movie, standing next to me. “Is that what I need to do? Build us a house? Would that make it all better?”

  I’ve fantasized about James building a house that we could live in together many times. He worked in construction before he began to do porn and sometimes I touched myself while visualizing him out in the hot Virginia sun hammering nails and hanging drywall. It was part of the plan: work at KINK long enough to have money in the bank to buy houses, remodel them, and flip them for a profit. But the economy had only continued to plummet, slowly unraveling our plans for leaving KINK.

  “It wouldn’t be so bad to have a house for our family. I guess that would be a start.”

  “I have our whole lives to make this up to you, Maddie. But I need you to give me a chance.” I felt suddenly breathless. It isn’t easy to trust again. Daddy had been gone for so long, and in his place was a ghost of the man I once knew. I was not quite sure how to make our way back to the love we first knew. Seattle mornings filled with rope and bodies and bottomless cups of hot cocoa seemed so far away. I wasn’t sure what our future held, but I hoped that we could find our way back to us.

  “This is your chance, Daddy. This is our chance.” I looked up at Mr. Mogul, speaking softly, my eyes drippy with tears. We had both been swept away by our careers, by the expectations of others. The pressure had ripped us apart, and we needed to find our breathing room together, to find where we could exist together.

  “I’m sorry, Maddie. Ice cream?” Daddy earnestly extended the pint of chocolate brownie soy ice cream.

  I nodded in agreement, gently wiping tears from my red-rimmed eyes, and reached for the cold carton.

  “Is there room for me on that couch? Can I watch the rest of the movie with you?” Daddy sat down next to me, holding my hand, and the touch of his fingers threaded through mine brought back feelings from our first date.

  “You’ll hate it, Daddy. It’s a romance.” I looked up at his face and, for a moment, I thought I recognized him.

  He brought my hand to his lips and kissed my quivering fingers, “I don’t mind.”

  Maybe Daddy had finally come home.

  I woke up in our bed in a sweaty panic, feeling out of place, alone, and wondering where I was. My body was naked and smooth. I closed my eyes and allowed my hands to run down my growing breasts and belly. I smiled, remembering the night before. I could smell pancakes, and I peeked out from beyond the covers to see his black boots. He knelt down, looked me in the eye and stroked my hair with tenderness and compassion; I was desperate for his touch even though, at times, it still felt hollow and forced. It broke my heart, but I could think only of my daughter and myself.

  When Mr. Mogul spoke to me his voice was quiet, but it felt like a chorus of hope. “Maddie, I can’t do it any more. I can’t work at that place. I can’t be there and be a father. What do you think? I need your support if I decide to do this.” It felt like he had opened his eyes and chosen life; like he might be ready to raise a family with me. I smiled and nodded, sitting up in the bed, and pulling him close to me.

  “Alright, I need to go in and get my stuff but I’ll be back.” He leaned in and kissed me on the mouth as my eyes watered up and I was filled with hope. I exhaled deeply when Daddy headed down the stairs of our apartment, descending into the Mission to enter those heavy castle doors that once lead the way to what seemed a palace but became our prison, for the last time.

  I took a long bath, lathering my body in delicious lotions and spritzing vanilla and grapefruit perfumes onto my wrists. I rubbed jojoba oil onto my round belly and taut skin. I slipped into a long peach-colored empire waist evening gown that my mother wore when she was twenty years old, in 1974. I applied fresh makeup, lining my eyes, and opening my mouth to fill in my plump lips with rich, deep red lipstick. I smiled in the mirror, looking at my face, now thick with pregnancy, my vibrant red hair falling in waves down my back. I stared into the mirror reciting the difficult speech that I had to give with a smile, “Welcome, and thank you for coming to Femina Potens’ award-winning literary series, Sizzle! Tonight we will be indulging in two of my favorite topics: cupcakes and Kink, yum. And we have a star-studded lineup this evening that includes the brilliant Laura Antoniou, Lorelei Lee, and Tina Horn. I will also be reading from my upcoming memoir.” I know how to warm up a room, I can excite an audience with a dash of humor and a whole lot of energy and cleavage, but these next words wouldn’t come with such ease. My stomach ached and I questioned whether this was growing pains from making a mature and responsible decision, or if I was giving up without enough of a fight. “ As you may have...” I lowered my eyes in shame and cleared my throat. I needed to do this with dignity and leave the audience with hope. “As you may have heard, tonight will be our last event at this location. Although goodbyes are never easy, I know this is only a transition as Femina Potens moves onto something even more brilliant. Please know that the power and strength in our community is not limited to a single home, we are ever changing, ever evolving, and we wouldn’t exist if it wasn’t for all of you, our dedicated volunteers, our incredibly talented artists, and you, ou
r community, our support. This dialogue will continue. So grab a cupcake, sit on down and let’s get kinky.” Tears streamed down my face. I wanted to believe the words as I spoke them out loud. I wanted to believe that our organization wasn’t dependent on my anal scenes and porn career alone. So much is changing so quickly. The rent had gone up again on the gallery and the number of porn scenes I could perform at seven months pregnant was limited. It was becoming increasingly clear that if James wasn’t working at KINK and I was not performing on a consistent basis we could no longer support the hefty rent and expenses of a storefront gallery in the Castro. It was time to say goodbye.

  I stood outside of the gallery on that familiar corner of Sanchez and Market, a weathered gay pride rainbow flag waved majestically in the cold San Francisco wind. Men with fresh buzz cuts and well groomed beards sporting leather jackets and dark denim blue jeans walked out of the neighboring barber shop, Male Image, a cornerstone in the old-guard gay male culture in San Francisco. The gallery lights were shining brightly, illuminating the buzz of activity visible from the large storefront windows. Several volunteers set up folding chairs in rows, while another adjusted the microphone height and plugged in a small guitar amp. Pink vegan cupcakes with icing pictures of handcuffs sat out on thin silver-coated platters from the dollar store. Maxine was sitting at the door with a cash box and a flier for that night’s event. A red carpet had been duct-taped to the sidewalk to lead guests into the warm, glowing beacon.