Who's your Daddy?

Uh, sorry, our credit runner's out of order. 

Damn it all to hell. I love my little, independent, locally-roasted coffee shop, but these are issues to be expected: constant technical disfunction and general inconsistency. I can relate on a personal level, but I don't carry any cash on me as a general rule because it winds up slipping away like sand between a drooling child's open fingers. And so, frustration.

I got this one, Babe.  

Igor to the rescue! I smile and twirl one of my pigtails -- he likes when I put on a show. I lean over and give him an exaggerated peck on the cheek, look up at him with baby-doll eyes and squeak in a "little" voice:

Thanks, Daddy...

His eyes roll and then land in a stare that clearly communicates that he's over the theatrics. He puts his wallet away and as he turns, he throws his next words over his left shoulder like spilt salt:

Don't call me "Daddy". 

Hurt and a little stunned, it takes me a moment before I realize that I'm standing at the counter alone. I absentmindedly pull the elastic out of one pigtail as I wander to the table where he's sitting in his usual Dominant stance. He's cooler than the iced coffee.

Why don't you call Bacon your "Daddy?" He's old enough to be. 

I hate to jump to conclusions, but it seems that someone's feeling a little insecure.

He's only 32. That would make him a very virile 7 year old. 

Whatever, Sweets. It's just not my bag.  

Fair enough, I guess. The other pigtail comes out.

__________________ 

I'm at the beginning of my cycle, and Fangs has been taking really sweet care of me. Belly rubs, back rubs, neck rubs, every kind of rub, basically. He took me to all my favorite places in the city and then he took me to dinner and a movie. He selflessly guided me to orgasm to relieve my cramps and he fed me chocolate. When I was moody, he held me and told me I was beautiful until I felt better.

As much as he treats me like a princess, Fangs really does look like a Nordic prince. His long, fine hair rests in soft curls on his broad, strong shoulders. He looks at me with his disarmingly golden eyes, smiles, and offers me a giant hand clad in every opportunity with silver metal to help me into the vehicle.

You take such good care of me... 

Well, you're my baby, you know that?

The following debate takes place in my head in following .5 seconds: I'm going to say it. I'm not going to say it. *Breathe* Don't say it -- Remember last time? Oh, for fuck's sake, just get over yourself and say it. If it doesn't go over well, just have a little grace and laugh it off...

Does that make you my Daddy? 

I'm afraid to make eye contact, but when I look up at him from the car, I see a wide grin and four fangs.

I guess it does...

He chuckles to himself as he goes around to the driver's side, and I bubble inside.

Communion, of sorts

I can hear the impatient foot-tapping, the intermittent sigh, and the awkward 2-foot pacing shuffle outside the stall. There's only one in the women's room, but all the same I'm glad we didn't go for the men's. This woman's irritated discomfort is absolutely tickling me, so maybe it's schadenfreude or maybe it's the simple fact of the public location, but whatever it is, I'm into it. This enthusiasm lends a particular gusto to my work and Bacon has to be extra mindful to check his groans.

I love North Beach. I love the strip clubs, the neon signs, the grimy pizza joints, and the shit-hole dives that are cheap and yet rich with literary and cultural history. I love imagining that one of the beat poets might have been on his knees in this very stall 50 years ago. And I, now similarly on my knees, can't help imagining myself linked to them in more ways than one. At least I know as well as they did that in this neighborhood, sleaze is not a spectator sport.

As I exit the stall and face the patiently fuming ladies-room martyr, I playfully wipe the corner of my mouth with fingers whose nails are perfectly painted black. I lock eyes with the woman, challenging her to say something, if she's got something to say to me, but she doesn't. Good. I recognized her as half of the couple that had been sitting next to us in the bar, and chuckle as Bacon and I return to our seats. Not two minutes later, the woman stormed out of the bar and her date followed her in confusion. Maybe she was a tourist to North Beach, harkening from somewhere fancier, like the Marina -- but here? What did she expect?

"So, where were we?"

Bacon can't wipe the grin off his big hairy face. I smile back, having taken great pleasure in satisfying him for the fourth time that night already.

"I believe the flowchart of our conversation has been: whiskey, polyamory, marriage, death, motorcycles, suicide, and then fucking in the bathroom." 

"Ah yes. Well, we better get another round then."

The Multi-Orgasmic Man

The environment was impressively well-curated with tasteful prints, a small, respectable library of vintage hardcover volumes by Foucault and Vonnegut among others, curious accoutrements such as brass knuckles, motorcycle mufflers, animal skulls, attractive yet masculine jewelry, and an antique Turkish throw woven from goat hair. However, I wasn't paying attention to any of this as his low growls drove me wild.

"Oh, I'm so... yeah... I'm reaching... orgasm..." 

My hand slick with spit was working hard as I writhed and purred from the reciprocation of his hands.

"Yes, cum..."

Following were a series of grunts that sounded something like:

"No, I'm not cumming, I'm orgasming..." 

A deep moan, a slight spasm, barely a second of rest, then he flipped me onto my back and kissed me deeply as he continued to pet my body. His hands and his lips were searching insatiably across me and he was somehow still hard.

"Are you... do you... practice tantra?" 

He couldn't possibly... The man reeked of cooked bacon.

"I've already orgasmed four times."

He was still ready for more. Love drunk, I stroked his beard as he grinned widely.

"You know, I think within the last fifteen minutes we've done six different positions..."

I smiled as I pushed him back and climbed on top.

"Variety is the spice of life." 

 ____________

I hadn't planned on staying over that night. It was only our third date and I had counted on leaving him wanting more, of being a "lady." Bacon was a gentleman indeed, treating me very sweetly and promenading me around the Mission district arm in arm.  As my friend put it when I recounted the tale to her:

"He gentleman'd his way right into your pants." 

Indeed.

I sat on his lap as we smooched, my tiny shorts revealing the entirety of my legs. He pet them softly and kissed me tenderly. After what seemed to be an eternity of sweetly innocent making out, I stood, wavering in my heels and I picked up my purse.

"I should get going."

The man stood tall at 6'4" but he looked me straight in the eyes as he slowly took the purse out of my hand and laid it on the ground. With the slow assurance of a man seven years my senior, he carefully picked me up and gently laid me on his large bed. I felt like a precious thing, a fragile bird: he had been so careful not to hurt me. Then he placed a hand around my neck with gentle but firm pressure. He ordered me softly:

"You're not going anywhere. Are you?"

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