Daddy’s Girl

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I am sitting on a plane back to San Francisco after one of the most painful visits to New Jersey I have ever had. We buried my DadDad on Saturday… Something my brain still hasn’t really processed. His failing health ended up eclipsing the kinky fuckery entries that I started, and then stopped and put off to the side until I could emotionally handle them.. For that I am sorry. I am going to try to start writing more frequently again. I miss the outlet of writing. It honestly helps when shit hits the fan to process it through these entries… And I admit my voyeuristic side greatly enjoys sharing my journey with all of you.

Today, two worlds met in a surprising way. I’ve mentioned before that I am very close to my dad. I still call him daddy (and no, I have never called a partner that, even when I go into little space..), and at 24 still consider him a super hero and partner in crime.

My dad is no angel. He went to art school in Soho in the 70’s… He’s told me stories from getting drunk in the darkroom of the photo lab to fucking one of his professors and still only getting a B in her class. These aren’t exactly normal dad stories.. But as I’ve grown we’ve become friends as well as father and daughter, and his stories have always been a way to illustrate that. They’ve also been an outlet for him, I think. My mom and him have had a rule since they got married. Their pasts don’t exist. They don’t talk about exes or past lovers. In nearly 30 years of marriage they never have. It works for them… And so I get to hear all the stories of my dad’s past so that he doesn’t blab them to my mom.

That being said, my parents are pretty vanilla. My dad has always been a one-woman man and my mom has only ever been with my dad. She lost her virginity to him. She doesn’t own a vibrator outside of a little bullet I bought for her (the big ones scared her…) that is still in the box. They don’t have toys. There’s no cross hidden in the closet. They, in the past couple years, haven’t quite known what to make of me, or what questions were safe to ask. They were curious.. But anything kinky often fell into the third category of knowledge (1:need to know. 2: don’t need to know. 3: DO NOT TELL ME UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCE EVER).

So, imagine my surprise when on the way to the airport tonight my dad goes, “So… What exactly is the scene?”

Ho boy. How to explain.

“It’s a lot of things, daddy.. And different for different people. For me, the kink scene is BaGG nights and parties at the Citadel. It’s when a group of us with shared interests, usually influenced by BDSM, get together and do our thing.”

“And what is BDSM?”

I knew my dad was vanilla. I didn’t know he was THAT vanilla.

And so I broke it down for him. I explained my world to him, best I could, in a way that wouldn’t make him sick to his stomach while He was driving me to La Guardia.

There was no disgust. No, “I forbid it!” Just a series of questions I could tell he had been wanting to ask for a long time. Most I had the answer to. Why do I have to wear a collar. Why do I want to. What exactly is a play party. How does this scene relate to James and I.

Some questions were harder to answer. Like, “Do you get hurt? Or is it just play?”, and, “Will you continue to live this lifestyle when you get married? Do you still want to even get married?”

It’s hard for someone who has only known monogamy (with a VERY possessive wife) to imagine wanting more. I could see that when I explained poly play, my other partner Chris, and what happened at Surrender. He didn’t understand why I wanted to do what I did. Didn’t understand why it was a need. I saw him wanting to understand. Saw him struggling.

My dad is afraid of heights. He gets a tone in his voice when he gets scared while we drive over bridges. As we talked, his voice took on that tone. His responses got shorter. His breath came heavier.

“You get why this is hard for me to understand, right kid? You understand why this is all hard to hear?”

Of course I do. I’m daddy’s girl. I was the first one to sit on his lap. I was the one he would read stories to every night growing up. HELL I have the female version of his name. We both have the same initials, and both go by our middle names.

What father wants to imagine their daughter having sex with multiple partners, or asking someone to hit them or bruise them? I doubt there is any protective father out there who would enjoy watching their daughter accept the kiss of a whip. If anything I know a few that would throw themselves between the whip and their child.

Still, even with this struggle he listened. He asked questions. He tried to understand. He would rather hear about this side of myself that he doesn’t know, one that’s hard for him to know, than have me hide myself. Would rather squirm than create distance between us.

I have always talked about my boyfriends to my parents. I have gushed many a time about my men, and usually they respond. With James, however, it’s been different… And that has made me a little sad, I’ll be honest. My parents know how we met, how we know each other. It took them a little time to process the wheelchair, and after that it took them a lot longer to process the rest. Any time I would share something of what James and I were doing (always vanilla. Comforting me after DadDad died, excursions to the movies or Black Bear Diner) the retort was always the same. “That’s nice, honey.” They never asked questions outside of how he ended up in a wheelchair. They never wanted more information, when they always had before.. And they never trusted I was safe with him. My parents never out right said that last part, but when I was with previous boyfriends for the night they would leave me alone. When I spend nights with James they make me check in.

For the first time, once we had exhausted the uncomfortable part of our conversation, my dad asked questions about my parter. I told him about the geeky sides of James, about being wrapped up in a James burrito at night and Hamlet monologues, and 5 am conversations that turn into 8 am snuggles because we don’t want nights to end.

I also told him about James’s family.. And in doing so found myself grateful for my family. I haven’t gotten to know my boyfriend’s parents or siblings because they will dislike me without knowing me. His family wants to know nothing of the kink side of himself, nothing at all. That includes partners.

James constantly walks this line between respecting his parents and respecting me. Here is a man flourishing in the kink community, connected with some of the top names in the business, and he can’t share his success with his family. They don’t want to know. He takes beautiful photographs of fetish models, and even gets to be a staff photographer at an international BDSM convention. They don’t want to know.

He met someone. Someone he has feelings for. He’s in a good, healthy relationship for the first time in almost a decade and it’s going somewhere.

They don’t want to know.

My dad may have been uncomfortable. He may not understand. But he wanted to know. He wanted to try.. And while it’s not his thing he accepts me for who I am.

It’s possible to be daddy’s girl and a kinky, submissive slut.. If you dad will listen. I am lucky.. As much as I am hurting, I know I am blessed.

Yours, so ready to be home
-Rene

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