Who’s the Daddy?

 

I remember when I first met you. It was on a dance-floor and of course I caught your eye, I wanted you to catch my eye. I always draw those needed admiring glances when I move through a crowd but whilst those were required and welcome, I was focussed on ensuring you noticed me. I knew that you would. It was just a question of time. It always is. I was stood near one of the bars.I always chose this bar as it was elevated allowing everyone to see me and allowing me to see everyone and it was from this vantage point that I observed you. I saw you enter the room, your tight as tight could be dress already turning heads and you smiled, winked and blew kisses as you walked down the steps onto the dance floor as if everybody in the club was there for you. You were confident alright but you were over confident and I could see straight through that. I kept watching you as you flirted with the men nearby, irrespective of whether they were with another lady and you seemed oblivious to the hateful stares you received from the handful of girlfriends or wives whose other halfs you flirted with. I was interested in you already. If I had a Spidey sense it would have been tingling.

Your lithe frame entered the dancefloor and you felt that the coloured lights and throaty bass were all there for you as you began to dance. You caught the eye of several men and one by one they tried to dance with you .I could see you smiling to yourself as you turned your back on those you deemed beneath you. Each of them was well-dressed and good-looking but you rejected them. You milled around the dance floor until you neared your target, a handsome chap but he was older than those you had rejected and he was your choice. You pulled the chosen one towards you and you began your dance with him. I could see the way that you were grinding against this man on the dance floor was provocative and suggestive. You maintained eye contact with him, as if letting him out of your sight would cause him to disappear. Your eyes burned with wanton desire and your undulating and writhing was most definitely sexual in nature. The sexual aggression flowed from you and this caught my interest. You appeared as a bright dot on my radar and I knew that I needed to learn more.

It was not long before this dance partner was cast aside and replaced by a tastier and more attractive prospect. Me. You draped your arms about my neck as we danced, ground your crotch into my thigh, turned and pushed your pert posterior into my crotch and it was clear you wanted to seduce me. I played along, reciprocating the movements, letting my hands glide across your body as I eventually steered you across to the bar area and sat beside you on a couch as I ordered us both a drink. This was the first time that I had seen you be still and it allowed me to appraise properly your appearance. Your hair, a dirty blonde colour was not cut but rather chopped short, sticking out in a variety of angles which gave the appearance of not caring but most likely had been carefully pulled and twisted into place before a generous layer of hair spray was applied. I reasoned that you wore your hair short because as a child you were denied the right to have it cut short. You always had to have it long and golden, like the hair of a princess. I bet your father would read you stories about Sleeping Beauty, Snow White and Rapunzel as he stroked your hair, telling you how beautiful it was because it was long. I imagined that you wanted to cut it as you got older, the length being difficult to maintain but moreover too symbolic of the safe, suburban and middle-class upbringing you had received when you wanted to rebel. I bet you fought to have that hair cut even just by a few inches but you were forbidden from doing so and now this punkish, chopped and almost butchered hair style was the two-fingered salute you had given to your past. It screamed its story to me since I recognised it from a mile.

Your lipstick was bright red, your eyes framed by black mascara, eye liner and a battleship grey eye shadow. You were thin. Stick-like and I recognised such a frame. You stared at me as you sucked on the straw sliding it in and out of those pursed lips as you tried, without subtlety, to suggest what I might have coming my way. You were much younger than me. I would imagine at least fifteen years between us. Nowhere near illegality of course, that is not my penchant at all, but a sufficient age gap that was noticeable and of course something they would comment on, he would comment on, if they ever met me. If.

I saw the tattoos on your arms, great sleeves of floral designs and also similar on your thigh as your already short dress rode up as you sat on the sofa. I could see the design was intricate and extensive across your left thigh but it did not mask the line of scars completely. That neat and ordered row of incisions that had been made in your thigh, like notches on a bedpost. They brought you relief, temporary and momentary, but they also shamed you and thus you sought the ink in an attempt to mask those wounds in the same way that I knew this overt  confidence, flirtation and sexual aggression was just a mask as well. That light on my radar shone brighter and I could almost smell the fuel that I knew would flow from you freely and readily, just like the blood had flowed down your thigh. I held your gaze, those flinty eyes trying to burn into my mind but getting nowhere, a slight flicker of confusion and then they shifted into conveying that desire you oozed. You had no idea whose web you had flown into but I knew exactly what you were.

“What time is your daddy picking you up?” I asked my question near shouted to be heard over the music playing.

You coughed, the straw shooting from your mouth as you jerked your glass away.

“What? My dad? He’s not picking me up,” you protested. Your expression was not one of mild amusement but rather disdain and irritation. Just as I thought it would be.

“Of course not. Why would he do that when you are coming home with me?” I added with a wide smile. Your eyes widened and you copied my smile.

“I do love daddy issues,” I said quietly.

“What?” you asked unable to hear.

“I said, I nearly missed you,” I replied in a louder tone, “I was about to go home.”

“Well, it is a good job you didn’t,” you answered as you moved closer to me, pressing that fragile and broken frame against me, seeking the warmth, shield and protection that I offered you. You had found your new daddy. I had found a potent new victim.

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16 thoughts on “Who’s the Daddy?”

  1. WOW HG again such a good article! Disco, tatoos, BOrderline PD, sex, much older relationships. An exciting read as I arrive to work!!!!
    And seems true about daddy or mommy issues. I read somewhere in a forum or maybe in this blog.
    That in 90% of the times girls marry their dads and boys their moms.
    I have not yet found my dad 😍😂😂😍…..
    With the exes I have had.
    My youngest brother who by the way visits me next week ❤️ Has a new GF already for a year very very similar to my mom. Even physically. Which is very good for him because my mom is a lovely woman. For the first time I see him settling down.
    And he my brother seems ( according to his words) had been up to many crazy woman…
    Maybe I ask him more about his female stories before his GF arrives some days later. I will finally meet her.
    I wait HG for your novels… the day you become a famous novelist 😃😃😃☀️☀️
    Thanks for the amazing posting.

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    1. Thank you Nikita. It is interesting the impact that our parents have on us in terms of shaping who we become but also how we choose our intimate partners. People may look for somebody who has traits of their fathers ranging from the understandable to the borderline incestuous. I of course look for people who have traits which indicate they will provide excellent fuel.

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      1. This came from somewhere….you werent born to want fuel. You stopped yourself from being burned…..sorry HG unless you are a Psychopath, then….you are this way for a reason… Most respectfully, Susan

        PS – I love and hate this blog

        PPS- Its all true…..B&stards. As if we havent gone through enough…love when they find their match… bc they all do…and you shall, too…never underestimate the power of love, even through your eyes <3

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  2. Yes i have read the brain gets trained that you without being aware of it look for the same traits your parents had and in the majority of the times like I said, boys to moms and girls to dads.
    If you ask me I would say no to look for same traits my dad had, but he had some good traits that any woman would like , he was intelligent, good talker, fun and very tall.
    I know you look for ⛽️⛽️😂😂😂. We all know this by now this very valuable information.
    I look for common traits with me. I am convinced today that the best relationship and the one that has more chances of surviving is when you can make love to your best friend.

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  3. Wow. Unbelievable how dangerous your understanding of our psyche can be. How you see right through our “overconfidence” and hyper sexuality.

    Daddy issues. Big time.

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  4. Daddy, tell me, I have been a good girl! This read makes my toes curl! Intoxicating. Do any of your books give insight as to how one might provide fuel more efficiently?

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      1. I will not struggle in the web. As it is my aim to get caught. I look forward to reading Fuel.

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  5. Oh my God, this is one of your most striking articles, and you have never reposted it? Impressive description of how you see right to the core. And l like your older comments, you have that tone only seldom now.

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    1. Agreed! This is a great article. It triggers your inner warning system to go off for “daddy issues” Girl when she leaves the bar with him. He had recycled his Caretaker articles about Karen or the one about Sweet Caroline in a long time either. Those also give great insight to the dynamic with him.

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  6. Every time I see girls over eighteen with hello kitty toys or clothes, I see daddy issues. I could be wrong and no offense to the girls.

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