Finding Daddy

We held hands for the first time on the way to Sephora. I pointed out that this was a first for us, and they pointed out that this was a really gay thing to say.

It was warm for late December, and Downtown Brooklyn looks kinda cute at night when the streets are wet reflecting the lights. Parker walked me to my train and kissed me like I was going to war.

I asked for another one. Fiending.  I could have stood on that street corner all night.

We’d met in a gay bar years before. That was the first time I’d caught feelings at 3 Dollar Bill. I hadn’t, and still haven’t, met anyone so pretty and androgynously Daddy at the same time.

We talked maybe 5 minutes. I felt a quiet longing spool up in my gut, and an honest sadness. I wasn’t ready for them and their mature big dick energy. 

I was 3 weeks out of my last trans surgery. My face was swollen. Sharp stiches were still dissolving in my eyelids. I could tell that they didn’t care about my marked-up face, but I didn’t even know who I was yet. I needed to finish my second puberty before I could try to be a real partner with a keeper like them.

You don’t understand how hard it is to find an age-appropriate hot dyke who’s a top-leaning switch, who’s also in their 40s, who’s also poly, who’s also a hooker domme, and who also feels good to talk to.

For the next two years I told every partner and lover I was heavily crushing on Parker but it wasn’t time yet.

A year after we met I was halfway to becoming myself. I’d locked in my femme voice, and settled on dressing like a lesbian who’s camping every day.

Parker bought me ice cream in a park. We talked about our families and how the first four decades were for each of us. I think I reminded them that I’m mostly a bottom, twice.

I don’t know how to seduce. I threw out all my red flags. They softly caught them and set them down for me. They made me feel safe. I went for a mouth kiss and they gave me cheek, but gazed at me like I mattered. Everything about that felt like a win. Their cheek tasted like a warm soft cookie out of the oven too soon, demanding that you wait for when it’s ready, but still so fucking good. They were poly-saturated.

I wasn’t done chiseling my shell off. We both needed another year.

By last Thanksgiving I was done chiseling. I’d fucked around and found out who I was. We’d been meeting up to write poems and essays on their sofa, but mostly we talked about everything. Their face makes at least 15 lovable expressions. The graceful way they moved around their apartment affected me. The way they deftly described handling troubles of the heart made it safe to pull closer.

One time they put their feet on my lap. Their socks said “Daddy”; my belly melted when they touched my arm a few times. I hung out with their partner of 9 years and wanted to know him more. Their connection felt healthier than a salad from across the room. I wanted in the picture frame.

On December 15th, 2024 I kissed them in their pickup truck. We shared tongues until my head fell on their shoulder. Melted. Gooey. Worth the wait. Ready to share everything else.

I was Daddy in all my relationships until I became a woman a couple years ago. I looked like Daddy, but it never felt honest. Connections only work after you become real. Real in the Velveteen Rabbit sense. 

Parker opens doors for me. They let me wait inside while they pull up their truck to pick me up when it’s cold. They treat me like a lady and I’ve never had that. I get to be little spoon. Their kisses punch through dysphoria. Daddy’s presence protects me and opens space that lets me be an awkward femme with confidence. When they hold me I purr. They make me believe I can be a better hooker. I found my Daddy and I’m so happy it’s not me.