Amplified Feels: Handcuffed and Blindfolded in a Sling

If you’re going to dive into the ninth circle of hell — by engaging in incest play — you should do it with intention and precision. No bitchassness.

When the Daddy sends me a photo of his big Black dick, I get all hot and bothered and decide that I have to meet him. But I have no money, so I hop the BART turnstile and foot it to his house in Upper Castro. Since we talked a bit beforehand, I know he is looking for Daddy/Son play. I figure that since my actual father is dead — as of a year and a half ago — I am free to indulge in as much incest play as I want without feeling a certain way about it.

(Did I mention I am drunk?)

Now, if you’re going to dive into the ninth circle of hell — by engaging in incest play — you should do it with intention and precision. No bitchassness. On this night, I feel like I need a Black Daddy, specifically.

Usually, I don’t discriminate. I have gotten into soooooo many Dad/Son scenarios with White Dads. If you counted every White father on every Nick at Nite rerun and multiplied it by how many times those reruns have screened since the ’90s, you still wouldn’t be near the ballpark guesstimate of how many White Dads I’ve banged. (I mean, this is S.F.) But there’s such a huge difference between Daddy/Son roleplay and Adopted Daddy/Son role play, y’know? As a Black person — and I say that with pride — I sometimes walk away from interracial Dad/Son roleplay feeling like the main character from that 1980s TV show Webster, minus the implied privilege of actually having a rich (well-meaning) White Dad adopt me. It feels like, where the fuck is my pony and health insurance?

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been handcuffed to some middle-aged white dude’s refrigerator, getting pounded to the gods, thinking, “Should I be getting paid for this?!” (To be honest, it only happened once, actually.)

However, San Francisco’s population of Black Daddies is severely lacking. The few you see in the Castro and SoMa bars are mostly into White boys, and the ones you meet at Steamworks all live in Sacramento, which is cool, but I’m a Bay girl and got shit to do. My schedule is too busy to be schlepping to Sactown just to get some dick. (I hope that last sentence didn’t make me sound like a stuckup bitch.)

Anyway, on this night, a Black Daddy is in reach, and this “boy” is hungry.

He is 6-foot-2, 60 years old, and still more muscular than I will ever be.

He is also rude as fuck. He makes me wait outside 30 minutes — because he still had to put the sling together. But aside from the sling, his house looks like a church aunt’s from the Deep South. Plastic covers everything. There are potpourri bowls, pictures of dead relatives, and even a Black Jesus painting. (I give him points for this.)

“I’m from Arkansas originally, been in S.F. _____ years,” he says. (I don’t recall the number, but it is substantial.)

“I’m from Alabama,” I offer.

“Take off your clothes,” he commands.

“Sure, dude, whatever,” I say.

“You call me ‘Sir,’ ” he says.

“Yes, Sir,” I reply.

He pulls out his hard dick and makes me crouch down on all fours in front of him. Then he makes me wait (like 10 fucking minutes) before I can touch it.

Now, although I dig “the scene,” I am by nature a willful brat and too grown to deal with all this “obey me, boy” bullshit.

But since I walked all the way here, I figure I better just do what he says.

As this is going on, I think to myself that a man should only be called Daddy if he pays your way through college. But wait, my actual dad never did that. But wait, my actual dad is dead. But wait, ew, what am I doing here?

(Did I mention I am drunk?)

My actually biological father was an emotional anarchist with little control over his own emotions, much less his offspring’s. He passed this “please fuck off” swag to his son, and I’m 20 seconds from wildin’ on this dude.

The Castro Dad then pours an entire bottle of poppers on a rag and starts huffing it so hard that I think his old ass is going to have a heart attack. I get scared for a minute because how the fuck would I explain this to the police? I don’t even know this guy’s name, mind you. He has (at this point) taken more time huffing that rag than he has touching me, and I start to feel neglected — which in turn somehow makes him feel like even more of a real father figure and oh shit, is he doing this on purpose?

(Did I mention I am drunk?)

The smell of video head cleaner fills the room, and he puts the rag of poppers to my face, and I almost throw up, but I power through it because I know if I blow chunks on his mid-’90s carpet, it’s going to be a problem.

He hears me gag, and now it’s time to shove his dick down my throat (of course). I generally hate violent head (especially if I’m the one who has to muster up the ego to endure it).

But again, I’m drunk and basically isolated in his apartment, so to prove to this complete fucking stranger that I am a tough “boy,” I muscle through it. I guess I pass the test because, in just a few minutes, I’m blindfolded and handcuffed to his sling, and this Daddy is pounding my ass with the confidence of a newly freed slave.

I can only imagine the faces he’s making. (Keep in mind, I’m blindfolded). And man! Old dude has got some moves!

Just as he is about to ejaculate, he leans in on top of me and whispers in my ear, “You’re Daddy’s perfect little boy,” and I start crying tears of joy.

Brontez Purnell has been publishing, performing, and curating in the Bay Area for more than 10 years. He is the author of  Johnny Would You Love Me … (If My Dick Were Bigger)? (Rudos and Rubes, 2015). Follow him on Twitter at @youngerlovers and on Instagram at @brontezpurnell.

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