Читать книгу Daddy Like - Sophie Iremonger - Страница 3

I have mixed feelings about this but mostly greed.

His voice is cushy, American, very very hot. He sounds like a man with a big ass. I just have to tell him.

Tell him; “your voice is so sexy.”

No, tell him he sounds like a man with a big ass, “oh… thank you..”

He sounds shy. Big and shy. Like a moose.

A big moose of a cheese-cake daddy: BIG AMERICAN DADDY.

Some sort of American big game animal hiding in a bush, showing me little flicks of his wallet.

But between you and I, it's just B.A.D.

“What colour stockings do you want me to wear?”

“Black."

At Hermanplatz, hub of infernal encounters, hunting for stockings and garters.

It's Hieronymous Bosch, but all the demons wear knock-off Nikes.

The headquarters, that nexus of sexual power: Karstadt.

Frumpy dumpy Karstadt.

I wander around in ever diminishing circles trying to find a girdle. Ask in several languages, none of them accurate, where I might get a suspender belt.They only have white ones for brides:

Frilly, virginal, embossed with daisies.

These bad boys are not going to hold up themselves so I sigh and cash up, head to Rossmans.

Rolling up to the Kasse in Rossmans buying only black latex gloves and lube is just too much though, so I buy the gloves and walk 4 minutes away to get a bottle of lube the size of a small garden shed from another Rossmans around the corner.

Is this what Daddy likes?

Wheeling my lube up Kottbussordam I imagine his huge man ass and quiz myself:

How far will I go with this?

Really?

He said on the phone he wanted something a little different...

Blustery, grey, storm swollen. The weather is terrible and getting worse.

Lying in the bath I hear the storm against the window raining so hard it sounds like white noise.

This Daddy requires extra ribbons, extra care: I spend four hours getting ready.

A black mesh leotard transparent apart from some strategically placed embroidered roses. A pair of frilly magenta panties. And of course, the stockings.

The stockings: black and coarse as shit, already threatening to run and turn back into petrol as I roll them up my legs, pegging them into the white suspender belt.

The overall effect is somewhat Western Saloon.

I have to try a few times to get them to stay.

I put on my most conservative black dress and just about manage to pack everything underneath.

There's' a whisper of a little bow every now and then.

I feel everything cling as I step forward,

silky and restraining against my tits and ass,

It's like being inside a musical instrument, something with strings,

But the only sound I make is a symphony of small talk.

To be 36 and on the game:

I never imagined this. Or did I?

if you don't do your homework.

If you don't clean your room.

You might be a janitor

Or live and die like a whore in Berlin.

That's what SHE said…

I have a way of fulfilling all her wishes whether I like it or not.

Sometimes I feel the cut of her words,

The mother tongue,

surgeon sharp.

But not tonight.

I feel proud of this body I work hard on.

I feel proud of having no fucks to give.

Or at least none for free.

It's only in this last year I have learned to wield my sexuality as a weapon,

A boomerang flashing out and returning with sureness and confidence, always just a little richer,

I'm the line in the sand, one of those sand sculptures in the shape of a sexy woman.

I will wash away, but boy, you are going to know about it before I do.

I lace up my boots and go out.

The weather: umbrella turns inside out, I scream.

Black chestnut trees roar, fling branches.

I devour everything with my scream, I am defeating the odds.

The odds that favour most things on earth being inanimate, or quickly returning to that state.

To be out, going to such a place, on such a night in such weather, is thrilling.

I'm hard and cold, immutable in freezing rain.

Just for tonight I am not sand.

Spreading my hands over my dress to feel the suspender straps against my firm and moving thighs, I check they are still attached to the stocking tops, and they are.

My ass is icy and the bus is full of grim simpletons. I catch a man’s eye, “you have no idea.”

He looks and I look, we look at each other with an armed neutrality.

My phone vibrates:

B.A.D: “I am wearing a maroon sweater.”

Haha! is maroon even a colour these days?

On the U1, I am more careful. Sit demurely, cold cheeks against the vinyl. Legs pressed together.

When I get up they unstick with a tiny sucking sound.

A white ribbon peeps out from under my hem and I cover it with one hand. Check that no one has seen.

I am lost.

No, not like that!

Kurfurstendamm has a thousand ins and outs.

I am lost in the physical sense, looking for the door.

I'm late.

I picture B.A.D sitting alone in the bar in his maroon sweater, slowly putting more and more of his money away. Watch it get sucked back into the ATM.

Watch his big behind (I'm even surer now it's a big behind) reversing up the stairs of a plane. Watch it fly backwards across the sky all the way to America.

Wet hair blows into my lipstick, I feel desolate.

DADDIES:

According to OSBOURNES' BIG BOOK OF DADDIES, there are three kinds:

Angry Daddy: seeks to dominate through cash.

Collector Daddy: who seeks to gather a harem to mitigate some innate insecurity.

Sad Daddy: a Daddy who seeks to expiate guilt through generosity.

I find the hotel and it is beautiful and huge.

Swing through the big gold doors. Check myself out while pretending not to check myself out in the tinted glass. I step onto a serpentine carpet decorated with twining gold leopards.