Daddy don't...
Sunday Jan 25, 2015
Trigger Warning.
Over the past decade I've been told – more than once – that I have “Daddy Energy.” Until the past week or so, I completely ignored that. In fact, I would inwardly cringe at the term – almost to the point of fleeing. After what happened, I didn't want to be called “Daddy,” especially in a scene.
What was it that made me so queasy, when just hearing someone refer to me as “Daddy?” Well… If I am going to move past this – and I am actually trying to – I suppose I will out my story. Note - this is an article of self exploration - and something that I needed to get out of me...
Before you go any further, you – the reader – may want to reconsider, if you have any familial or parental abuse history.
It was 1992.
Let me set the scenario for you. I had moved to Columbus, having been discharged from the Army a year prior. One night, I ended up at a club that happened to have a BDSM “stage show.” The lusty looks, the pain inflicted, the hints of sex. I thought, I want this! I like to hurt people, I like sex; this is for me.
At the time, I had no idea if there were introductory meetings, like minded groups or gatherings, etc. I had no idea there were “rules.” No concept of “Safe, Sane, or consensual.” I learned about what was “right” and “wrong” from the women I "dated." Many of them, especially the last one, really didn't know the difference either. Perhaps this whole story would have been different if I had an intro group like the New 2 Kink Group or even a mentor… but I didn't have one.
Regardless, I loved the idea of slapping, kicking, punching my lover as they begged for more. More and more I frequented the bar, and dated the women there. They dated me 'cause they liked pain, and some were very heavy masochists. About two months of dating, I met her.
She was attractive. Something drew me in. Now I know how unhealthy it really was… but at the time? It was enticing. Part of it was the slightest hint of desperation as she surveyed the club. She was searching for something… someone… I didn't know. But I was 22 and brash enough to ask. She gestured briefly to the new “volunteer” on the rack on the stage. As we watched the heavy slap/thud of the flogger, she commented. Something to the effect of “not nearly hard enough…” or some such.
I opened my mouth, and shortly thereafter, we were back at her apartment. Like wild animals, we tore at each other. First our clothing, then our flesh. Her eyes pleading, she demanded pain. I gave it to her. Slaps, punches, holding her down. She cried “more, more!” I stepped up, and back. Then the cries shifted.
Looking down at her naked body, curling into a fetal position, I listened to her sobs. She moaned, Daddy. Daddy, Please. Not again, Daddy. I'm a good girl. Don't hurt me anymore, Daddy.
I had no idea what to do. I reached to comfort her. She recoiled. I felt torn asunder. Filled with regret and disgust, I couldn't even bring myself to try again. I gathered my clothes, hurriedly dressed, and slunk out into the night.
After driving the streets for hours, I returned home. Straight to the shower… to wash it all off. Turning the handle, the water got hotter and hotter. My skin red, raw, not enough. Crawling into bed, I prayed for sleep. It wouldn't come. Her words haunted my every thought. Not just the words, but the meaning, the reality behind it. I had been brought into a cycle of pain. Unwillingly, unwittingly. The image in my mirror stared accusingly – How could you? Why would you?
The nausea came and went for days. Finally, I decided. Never again. I would never go back to that bar. This life wasn't for me. I didn't know anything about it. I didn't want to know any more. I just couldn't take it. I walked away. I didn't look back. After several weeks, I could finally sleep again. But every once in a while… I would dream, and wake shuddering.
Fast forward 10 years - 2002.
I'm in Love. Yes, with the big “L.” Sheba and I decide to expand our sexuality, and head to Canada for a four-day spiritual sexuality workshop. It's going great, and our sex and connection has never been more intense. Until the next morning that is… Lo and behold, one of the teachings is on BDSM. I am thinking that I want to be excused, when the demo began.
Throbbing, sensual music lilted through the space, and the door to the downstairs opened up. One of the instructors, clad in a black patent leather corset, fishnet stockings, black stiletto heels, carrying a leather crop, slid through the opening. Her footsteps clicking in time with the music, she strode briefly around the circle. As she made eye contact with each person, power emanating from her. Palpable. Magnetic. After what seemed like forever, she stopped at one of the attendees and put her crop under his chin.
Their eyes met, and the splash of energy was unlike anything I had felt before. She applied little pressure, and as if on strings, he rose. She led him to the center of the open circle, without ever losing eye contact, and bid him to kneel. He sank down, and there was a brief exchange. He vigorously nodded, and their scene began. I would explain it further, but highly doubt the written description would do it justice. Needless to say, it was one of the most intimate and powerful exchanges of power and sexuality that Sheba and I had seen to date.
When it was all over, Sheba looked over at me and said, “I want that.” For a moment, my mind went back to her. - but my body didn't. Sheba continued, “I want you to spank me… and let's do all kind of things… like them!” Hesitating only for a few, I made the decision. “Yes. With you? Yes. But let's go slow.” And we did.
The weekend came to a close, leaving us brimming with sexual energy. We began the long drive home, only stopping briefly for food, gas and the infrequent roadside fuck. Hitting the Ohio border on 90, we saw a sign for a 24 hour sex shop. We looked at each other, grinning in silent acknowledging that we had both seen the sign, and pulled off the exit.
The Sex Shop was just off the highway, and its parking lot was well lit for some late night detours. Walking in tentatively, we were surprised by both the brightness and the cleanliness of the facility – as we had expected quite a bit less. The helpful sales clerk gave us the grand tour of what turned out to be a very well stocked establishment. We shopped a bit, and came back to the counter with some lube, some nipple suckers, and our very first flogger – a leopard handled “Koosh” rubber flogger. We paid, and with a wink from the cashier, we headed out with our loot.
Little did we know what that set in motion. Once, we returned home, we began scouring the internet for kink resources in our area. We ordered books on the subject – which we promptly devoured. We even tried a power exchange relationship with each other, which crashed and burned almost instantly. But our thirst for information and that flow of energy wasn’t abating in the least.
Now – 2015.
Up until this point, my primary limit was: Don't call me “Daddy.” It's been that way since 2002. But a couple of days ago, things shifted. I don't really know if it's because of time healing all things? If I suddenly re-framed “Daddy Energy?” Maybe it's my nurturing nature? Perhaps it’s because I admire Nayland in my mind - the ultimate Daddy type – and my beard is getting like his? I don't know… But I am re-evaluating that role.
You see, I was talking on the phone with someone about AIS stuff. They had posted something and it was an issue. Explaining my perspective, I said something like – It would create much more work for me, and you don't want to do that, do you? Her tone become slightly submissive as she responded.
My brain twisted the whole thing into – “You don't want to disappoint Daddy, do you?” I quickly realized that the “D” word was in there. I waited for the nausea, for the cringe, for the squick… but it didn't come. Instead, I felt something akin to a power exchange flow. Just for the briefest of moments. But it was there, and it wasn't bad. Not at all.
Now I am left with that taste. You know the one. Where you are at a restaurant and someone gives you just a spoonful of yummy? Just enough of a taste to make you think… “I might just come back to this place and get a whole bowl of that for myself.” I never know what's going to happen when I come back. Will it be delicious all the way to the last bite? Or was that previous spoonful exactly the right thing at the right time… and now… not so much? Only one way to find out…
Peace,
Barak & Sheba
©2015 Barak & Brat Sheba