Experiencing Daddy Issues...

Daddy issues? Nothing could be father from the truth!

“Sex is a conversation. Good sex is a debate. Great sex is an argument.” - Quote attributed to Alice, Sometime in the mid 2010’s. Feel free to quote me. It’s probably one of the most sensible things I’ve ever said.

Communication is key to so many aspects of life, with sexual shenanigans very much included. This isn’t to say there’s not also a time and a place for wonderfully simple and uncomplicated rhythmic grunting/moaning/gasping/yelping/panting/screaming - there can be something utterly joyous in uncivilised bestial simplicity - but, for the most part, communication and conversation during the act only ever makes sex better.

For the purely mechanically minded, sexual discussion need be no more than a set of instructions, expressed and delivered in much the same style as arranging and building some flat-pack furniture; ’Up and to the right some more.” “More pressure!” “Wait, not so hard…” “Screw it, just like that!” etc. Entirely functional and practical but perhaps a little soulless.

But, equally, for the more verbally dextrous/literary minded/vocal railroader, it can go a little too far in the other direction, as you’re forced to listen to laborious minutes on end of waffle and needlessly overwrought and flowery vocabulary spewing forth before able to get down and dirty to the good stuff.

This is why civilised society created the perfect happy medium. Something at once functional *and* creative. A shortcut to exciting times without being needlessly excessive. Something deliciously crude but also endearingly tongue in cheek.

I speak, of course, of the language of the cunning linguist; Dirty talk.

I love the notion of dirty talk, despite being horrendously unskilled at it. At least, I’m often accused of being bad at it, as I’m largely incapable of taking it seriously. I’ve always struggled to commit to saying something beautifully vulgar and crude with an entirely straight face. However, in my defence, I’d argue this is part and parcel of the experience. Sex itself shouldn’t be entirely serious - it’s a ridiculous, messy, absurd and frequently hilarious activity, and is usually at its best when it’s embraced as such.

But this attitude isn’t always shared. And, sometimes, approaching a situation with a different tone and set of expectations can lead to awkward - and, in hindsight, hilarious - consequences.

Like the time a random hookup asked me to call him Daddy.

For once, the details as to how this particular encounter came about are blissfully unimportant. But, for those who crave context, I’ll be uncharacteristically succinct:

Night out. HIAATAMT. Alcohol. Handsome guy. More alcohol. High libidos. Back to his place.

Even the poor guy’s name has long been lost to the mists of time, assuming I even took the time to learn it in the first place. Which may sound dismissive on my part but I’m also reasonably sure he was the same individual who referred to me as ‘Amber’ twice prior to our evening escalating, so it’s fair to say name recollection wasn’t necessarily a high priority for either of us.

As such, I’ll call him Rupert, if for no other reason than he was wearing a scarf in a picture a friend took that night.

Rupert had a good tongue. A very, *very* good tongue. As versatile and fluid as a cobra being charmed out of a basket by an irritating flute, with me being the flute in this inexplicable analogy. It’s an especially odd choice given I’d been the one charming *his* snake first, but, as I said, the details of how we got here are unimportant.

But an excellent tongue is no guarantee of it also being silvered.

We’d spent an hour or so doing wonderfully enjoyable things to each other with tongues, mouths, hands, fingers, lips and various other body parts, and had finally made our way to the main event. I was lying on my back on his bed atop his hideous lime green duvet that looked as though we were about to engage in sex upon a high visibility jacket. His face emerged from between my thighs and he was hurriedly repositioning himself to capitalise on the fervour his tongue had just whisked up.

Now I’m not much of a fan of missionary sex. I find it a little predictable and samey. But it’s a fine enough option to kick things off - if a little predictable - before moving onto more exciting positions. And, given I was still cresting the high of his tongue, I was in no state to suggest an alternative. Instead I simply wrapped my arms around his neck, kissed him, and told him to fuck me.

Which he did.

Up until this point there’d not been much in the way of conversation, principally because until this point one or both of out mouths had been largely otherwise engaged. But it was clear he’d taken my ‘fuck me’ comment, as an indication that the time for discussion had begun.

Sadly my memory isn’t strong enough to be able to quote his opening salvo verbatim, but it was clear that his sexual vocabulary was somewhat limited. Which is to say that the vast majority was of the porn cliche variety, that could easily have been quoted directly from ‘Sexy Fucks 2: Too Fucking Sexy’ or similar.

What I did note was that, despite the bad porn dialogue, he delivered it entirely seriously and with a utterly straight face. Not that I cared. He had excellent pace and rhythm and was able to verbalise the nonsense without interrupting his energetic thrusting, so I did my best to repress any laughter, and to respond in kind.

By which I mean I said ‘Mmm… Yes.’ ‘Just like that,’ and ‘Fuck’ a lot.

Soon enough despite the fact the tone of his dirty talk had placed him firmly - and to my great delight - in the dominant role for the occasion, the sheer repetitiveness of missionary took its toll, and I, with what I hoped was a steely and furious gaze, suggested he should perhaps get me on all fours and fuck me from behind.

He retorted with something along the lines of ‘Yeah, you’d like that wouldn’t you…?’ And, somehow, I resisted the urge to answer;

‘Well. Yes. Obviously. That’s why I just suggested it. Let’s switch from the warm up to the main event, shall we?’

We repositioned and the improved effect was immediate. He had greater room for motion and was able to direct his energies far more efficiently.

He delivered what could only be described as a thorough railing. During which I was extremely vocal in my enjoyment. Perhaps a little excessively so. Because that’s when it happened.

Amongst the loud slapping of skin on skin as his thighs struck and bounced off my arse, while he tightly gripped my shoulders at arms length for increased leverage, he loudly proclaimed;

“Call me Daddy!”

Ah.

Now, dear reader, I’m no prude, nor I am naive. I’m incredibly aware that this particular expression is commonplace in certain varieties of porn and has crept into the common parlance as a standard expression of domination/submission.

But.

At best I find the utterance ludicrous and laughable. Because, on any level, it’s a ridiculous statement to make. A lazy cliche that may not be ill intended, but that sounds absurd in almost any context. At worst it’s, frankly, outright off putting. I’m delighted to say that I haven’t got an Electra complex and, while I love my father dearly, I can honestly say I’ve never considered him a sexual prospect.

Which left me in something of a quandary. Under normal circumstances I’d point out how ridiculous it was or raise it as a discussion point. But we were building to a climax. The sex was excellent and, coward though it may make me, I didn’t want to jeopardise the incoming orgasm I felt was perhaps minutes away at most. And he’d delivered it so damn seriously that I felt even laughing it off could potentially be misread as a personal sleight that could equally kill of the wonderful momentum.

So instead I put my head down, threw in an “Mmm… fuck” or two, and hoped we’d move on.

It didn’t work.

He released one of his hands from my shoulder and grabbed my hair instead. With a firm yank he pulled my head back and repeated himself.

“Call me Daddy! Say it!”

Fuck.

Fuck fuckity fucking fuck. Things had been going so well and now seemed doomed to fall at the final hurdle.

Unless.

Unless. Fuck it. I could throw distaste to the wind and just go with it. I’d done far, far worse. I mean, how bad could it be?

As it turned out; very.

Reader, I tried. I really, honestly, genuinely tried. I’d rationalised it, reached a conclusion and I swear my brain sent the impulse to my mouth to just say Daddy.

But instead, inexplicably, what I actually said was:

“Mmm… Yes father.”

Now I say inexplicable. Hindsight and retrospective analysis has lead me to a semi-logical conclusion. I invariably refer to my own Dad as father, not in an upper-middle class fashion, but out of a bizarre sense of irony given a childhood of calling him Dad. I’ve never, even as a young child, referred to him either in person or to others as ‘Daddy’.

And in that moment, under pressure, my vocal chords had clearly fallen back under the confused brain signal and plumbed for what they knew and found familiar. Sheer muscle memory.

I hadn’t even registered I’d said it until his confused and somewhat irritated response.

“What?” He asked, his pace already hesitating.

Full disclosure. I panicked on feeling his grip loosen, and tried to save things.

In the very worst way possible.

“Fuck me papa!”

Because using a variety of Daddy alternatives is just as sexy, right guys?

Needless to say, It didn’t work. He thought I was taking the piss. Which, to be fair, probably wasn’t a million miles from the truth. To his credit he tried to hide the clear blow to his enthusiasm, but it was painfully apparent all the same.

Somehow, even with the newfound lacklustre momentum, he still brought me to orgasm soon after. His clearly frustrated manhandling of me helping no end.

In return, I planned to swallow my pride and endeavour to deliver where I’d failed earlier. I spun around on my knees, grabbed his cock and started furiously stroking it.

“Would Daddy like to cum on my face?”

It would have been a perfect plan. Except I just couldn’t do it with a straight face. I’d started sniggering by the time I’d enunciated the second d.

He looked genuinely annoyed.

“No. Just suck it.”

I did. Swallowed too. But it was all too little too late.

He didn’t even ask for my number. So I couldn’t help myself. Once I’d redressed and was heading out, I left him with one final line to remember me by. Something which I hope has remained with him and confuses him even to this day.

“I’m sorry. It’s just… You don’t even look that much like my Dad.”