Daddy's LIttle Boy

I should warn you that I am not about to talk about actual fathers and sons. Get that link out of your head right now or you will feel very very dirty when you read the rest of this entry.

I have always had a knack for finding guys that like to be called Daddy. I called my first boyfriend Daddy. Vince, the boyfriend after him, was Papa. And Lenny was just Dad. Lenny called me Beautiful Baby Boy. BBB for short.

It doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure out why this happened. I wasn't raised with my father, and by the time I was an adult I craved a nurtering male role model as much as I craved hot man sex. Fortunately, in the gay community, its not so crazy to get both in the same guy.

But my last relationship wasn't like that. Scott and I were equals, and by the time we broke up I was no longer in my 20's and I thought it would seem a bit silly to call someone Daddy in my 30's. I guess I thought that the little boy in me had grown up. Until last night.

I went to a big dance party in Chelsea that I heard had a reputation for being popular with big older manly men. For most of the night I danced in circles around my friends, but when they left at 3am I started wandering around to find someone new to hang out with. It was that time of the night when guys whip their heads frantically looking for someone to keep them warm after the party, and I was starting to feel the whiplash myself. My wandering ended by the back bar, where a very tall bearded man caught my eye. His defining qualities were his enormous feet and a slightly insane look of desire that filled his eyes when he saw my butt.

An hour later we were in his bed. I recognized that he was 5 inches taller than me and probably 15 years older, but I still tried to get on top of him. He wasn't having it. He pushed my down, laid and top of me, and told me to be a good boy.

Oohhhhhh yeahhhhhh.

So I won't bore you with the details, but I will share the funny part. He kept telling me to grab him in his special place, and when I would, he would whisper in my ear, "What's that?"

At first I assumed it was a rhetorical question. You know, I have one too. I know what it is. But seriously, he kept asking me, "What's that?"

The first time I answered it came out more as a question. "Your dick?"

"Yeah, that's right". Oh good, I got it right. Maybe he'll stop asking me what it is. But no.

5 minutes later. "Put your hand down there." I do. "What's that?"

I thought I already got this answer right. I must not have. "Daddy's dick?"

"Oh yeah! Good boy!"

Oh, good, this time I passed. But he still made me repeat it for the next hour or so.

So we did it, we slept for a few hours, and then in the morning we woke up and did it again. As I was getting dressed I wanted to thank him, but it occurred to me that I didn't know his name. All I had called him so far was Daddy. I went back to the bed and he pulled my back into his chest to cuddle with him one last time, and when I looked at the wall ahead of me I saw a child's painting on the wall that said, "To Uncle Tom."

Tom. That's right. "Thanks Daddy Tom," I said, and kissed him goodbye.