It’s the Saturday before Halloween; the big Halloween party night. It was our favorite holiday, his and mine, and he’s gone, so I really don’t care this year, I pretended it wasn’t coming, I skipped the parties thrown by friends at school, though now I do wish I’d bought pumpkins and carved them and put candles inside and salted and roasted the seeds. I also wish fall was in the air; I miss the damp, melancholy romance, the cold swirling fog, I miss San Francisco; Halloween in San Francisco.
But it’s the Saturday before Halloween, and Daddy Pete is giving me a second chance tonight; things are looking up. He stopped seeing me after I pissed him off by asking for something dumb like getting drinks at a bar or an ice cream cone down the street from my apartment. I’m an exhibitionist of sorts; Pete is very tall and I’m very small and I love our size difference and just wanted people to see us together; also I was hoping for some public Daddy-girl interaction. Nothing turns me on more than a pinch on the thigh in public, some strict words spoken into my ear when other people are around... being told I can have only a virgin drink at a bar when what I really want is tequila. Alcohol and Daddy... I suppose I’m all messed up from my childhood with an alcoholic, another Pete, long ago. I must admit I love the taste of beer and marijuana in Daddy’s mouth. But regardless of what I wanted or what fantasy I had or what taste I enjoy, it made Daddy Pete not want to see me for a while.
But tonight I have a second chance. Tonight Daddy tells me to dress and feel like a little girl, and to wait for further instruction. I shower and make up my face. I usually have Daddy at my apartment, and I dress in lingerie, babydoll nighties, or Hello Kitty panties, but tonight I’m going to Daddy’s house for the first time ever. (I’m wildly curious about Daddy so of course I am thrilled to be invited to his house, and am also pleased that it means he trusts me to some degree.) Worried about cops and drunk party-goers, I asked Daddy if I can dress normally tonight, meaning not sexy or skimpy, and he agreed and told me to be safe. Now I dress quickly in skinny jeans, a fitted baseball style tee shirt and my skate shoes... for the first time, I’m dressed like a teenager for Daddy. I split my hair into two pigtails, and right then Daddy sends me a text message telling me to come to his house now. Perfect timing-- I grab the fancy beer out of my refrigerator that I’d gotten for Daddy and go down to my car.
Daddy lives about half an hour away. Once I arrive in Daddy’s neighborhood, I park my car quietly and text Daddy to tell him I’ve arrived. He comes to his door to greet me; I see his tall, dark shadow in his doorway, and my heart starts to beat faster, fluttering in my chest like a hummingbird. I’m nervous and scared, and I should be scared: Daddy is a scary mother fucker. The phrase “still waters run deep” describes Daddy. Like a lake at night, you just never really know what’s going on under his cool, smooth surface, really.
We say hello and he leads me through the darkened house and out to the area behind the house where it’s quiet and cool and we can see the lights of San Diego in the distance. He’s drinking a cup of wine and offers me some, and offers me a homemade bong. I hold the contraption up and examine it, laughing. Daddy laughs too and says, “Yeah, it’s real ghetto.” I like this moment, because it feels like we are friends. I place the beer I brought on the table. Daddy’s dog, a friendly pit bull, puts his head on my leg for attention and petting. (I like the feel of his soft, white chest hair.) Daddy Pete smells clean, like soap, and I imagine his hair is damp, though I can’t tell for sure. I make some small talk about the view and muse aloud about what direction we’re facing; I have a terrible sense of direction and am always turned around.
After indulging this conversation for a short time, Daddy leads me back inside, into a room. It might be his room, there’s a bed in the room, and a sofa and a television, and a cross on the wall; it’s a large room, but there’s nothing personal inside it and it’s very uncluttered. Maybe it’s Daddy’s room and maybe not.
As I’m thinking about this, Daddy tells me to stand up. He always tells me to stand up, I’m not sure why. He tells me I look cute, “So cute, baby,” he says. This always dissolves me, his telling me I look cute and calling me “baby”... My worries and thoughts start to float away and I’m becoming Daddy’s submissive little girl, no longer a woman in my 30’s with all my problems and adult concerns.