[F] The Night I Became a “Daddy” Girl

You could say I’ve fucked my share of daddies—by which I mean both men who have literally fathered children, as well as hot, dominant, sexy-older-man types. (There’s a probably unsurprising amount of overlap between those two varieties of daddyhood, as it turns out.)

As for actually calling any of these men “Daddy,” that always felt a bit on the nose for me. 3 years ago I used to get ready for school every day listening to Lana del Rey’s Born to Die album, the whole “Daddy” thing always felt like more of a campy schtick than something I could imagine anyone actually saying with any level of erotic authenticity.

That is, of course, until one night in my 18s, in bed at a five-star hotel with yet another man old enough to be my father—this time, one I happened to work for. We were a workplace scandal waiting to happen, the cliché-est of sordid clichés, the 18-year-old assistant and the married big shot with a reputation. The kind of thing you can’t possibly imagine still happens because, Jesus Christ, this isn’t Mad Men, and yet somehow still happens all the time. And because I have a somewhat unflattering, occasionally inconvenient, and often frowned-upon thing for the illicit, I couldn’t fucking help myself.

It started the way these things usually do—innocuous work emails that turn into maybe-unnecessary work phone calls that turn into Holy shit, his voice is sexy that turn into texting after hours late one night. First we were talking about work, then we weren’t. Around 2:30 a.m., he let me know he was going to be back in the city next week (he’d been away doing Big Shot things since I’d started my job—we’d never actually met IRL) and we should “grab a drink and talk shop.”

Got him, I thought.

Well, I thought. I didn’t know for sure what this man actually had in mind. Even our latest late-night texts, while not strictly professional, hadn’t technically crossed any lines. So a few days later I put on my tiniest, is-that-really-work-appropriate? mini skirt and met him in a ritzy Midtown hotel bar to find out if “talk shop” was the euphemism I assumed it was.

Here’s the thing you have to understand about Big Shot, though. He wasn’t actually your typical arrogant prick of a corporate asshole, barking orders and sleazing on interns. At this stage of my daddy-fucking career, I’d already encountered more than a handful of self-proclaimed “Alpha male” types (pro-tip: if a man ever refers to himself as an “Alpha,” GTFO of there as fast as you can) who take what they want and fuck you like they’re flexing on you. This man was not that. He was kind and warm, flattering but not sleazy, with the kind of understated confidence that we talk about when we’re talking about Big Dick Energy. He wasn’t aggressive or creepy; three drinks in, sitting side by side at the bar, I still had no way of knowing for sure if this man even wanted what I wanted him to want from me. All I knew was that every maybe-not-so-accidental brush of his hand against my thigh felt fucking electric—in a way that made me understand, for the first time, what people mean when they say that. Some clichés are just clichés until they come along and nearly knock you off your barstool on a random Tuesday night.

As had been true from our first phone call, his voice was the thing I was most attracted to. Like him, it was confident, not arrogant, deep, but not booming, smooth and warm—the way I imagine people who like whiskey think good bourbon tastes. When that smooth whiskey voice asked the question I’d been waiting for, “How old are you?” I smiled and said, “I just turned 18.”

“You seem much wiser and more mature than 18,” he said.

Checkmate. Like many women—particularly those who seek out and/or are sought after by older men—I’d been receiving some version of this compliment for as long as I could remember. He may not have known it yet, but Big Shot had just shown his cards. If there’s one thing men—this particular brand of men, especially—want, it’s a woman with the wit and intelligence of one their own age perpetually imprisoned in the body of one half that age. This doesn’t exist, by the way (though that won’t stop men from expecting it of us), but I could do the “I’m just an old soul trapped in this hot young body” bit pretty well.

We closed down the bar and spent a few awkward moments in the lobby, me unwilling to leave and him unwilling to let me go, but neither of us sure how far the other was really willing to take this thing.

“Do you want to just raid the minibar upstairs?” he asked, like we were both just in need of a nightcap and nothing more.

“Sure,” I said, as if I hadn’t known all along what “talk shop” really meant.

Upstairs in his room, we pretended we were there for innocent purposes for about three minutes. I took a total of two sips of the minibar wine he poured before he kissed me, downed the rest of my glass, and led me by the hand to the bed.

Making out frantically, tearing at each other’s clothes like, Holy shit, this is really happening, he stopped to ask me a question. “Do you like name-calling?”

Reader, for all my I’m a Sexually Experienced Woman Beyond My Years bravado, I didn’t really know what he was talking about. While I’d had a decent amount of bone in me by that point in my life, the majority of my sexperiences had been relatively vanilla—and relatively quiet. I’m not a big talker in general—ask me to say six words in front of more than three people and I simply forget how to breathe—and for the first few years of my sexually active life, that reticence typically extended to the bedroom.

Source: reddit.com/r/gonewildstories/comments/11tt438/f_the_night_i_became_a_daddy_girl