“YOU ARE NOT THE DOM OF ME!” Glaring, angry, red-faced, huffy and actually shaking, I screamed these words directly into his face, spittle flying and not giving a rat’s ass. I’m half Irish. When I get my Irish up, EVERYONE knows it.
This particular rather rash, Irish fueled tirade began thusly….
I dressed in a cute little outfit to go out for the evening with some girl friends. Perhaps the skirt may have been a little too short and the top may have been a little low cut and the fuck-me stilettos may have been a little edgy for the local pub scene. However, I believe in being prepared…you know in case a limo pulls up and we are whisked away to a ultra trendy, hot, happening dance club. I looked great. Daddy agreed. I texted him a picture of his kitten all done up and ready to go.
“Thank you, Daddy.”
“Now, go take it off and wear something less dramatic.”
“Kitten, you are not leaving the house in that unless you are coming here.”
“But I like it. I like looking good and feeling good about the way I look.” - Yes, this is an intentional low blow. I know that Daddy would never do anything that fed into my body image issues. Yes, I knew exactly what I was doing. Yes, I was attempting to maneuver. Yes, I failed epically.
“Nice try, kitten. If I have to come over there, you won’t be going out at all. Now, be my good girl and go change. Text me a pic.”
I sighed. I tilted my head. I was vaguely aware my eyes were starting to gleam. The other girls stood around tapping their stilettos impatiently. I knew that their heavy sighs were seconds from leaving pursed lips, which would be quickly followed by the, “Seriously? Not with the Daddy thing again! Let’s go!”
It was at this particular moment in time that I realized I was about to make a decision based solely on what my inner brat was screaming in my ear. It was also at this particular moment that I decided I didn't give a shit, I was wearing what I wanted to wear and I was going where I wanted to go… wearing what I wanted to wear. So there.
Off we went. To the pub…. club…. whatever. We went out. You know, to be girls. Do girl things. Like dancing… and drinking……. and maybe flirting…… only to reinforce our positive body image…………….
Not two hours later, the limo did indeed pull up. We squealed with glee. Time to exit the pub scene and hit the dance club. We had planned this outing for a while. We verily skipped to the curb, squealing while simultaneously trying to look aloof…. because, you know, we rode in limos everywhere we went. Just look at our fabulous shoes, darling.
The chauffeur opened the rear door. We piled forward and came to screeching, heel snapping halt.
Daddy exited the limo.
Not just any Daddy.
I was so going to get it.
I went with my first instinct, I leapt out of my heels and shot off in a full out sprint down the sidewalk. Well….as much of a sprint as a short, tight skirt would allow. Then, I heard him.
“Kitten, don’t make me chase you.”
I slowled my hectic pace as nonchalantly as my bare feet and short, determined-to-ride-up-and-over-my-ass skirt would allow, because you know, I was planning to slow down anyway. I glanced casually behind me, because, you know, I may have heard something coming from the general vicinity of the limo….. There was Daddy, precisely two inches from my face, in my personal space, brandishing my heels and the "look."
“I did stop running," I blurted. "That needs to count for something. I’m just saying. There’s at least one good thing that came out of all of this…..” Yeah, nothing doing.
So, I made one final attempt at flight, and fled barefoot and panting back into the bar, the very packed bar, the every pool table in play, every dart board in use, not an empty bar stool to be had bar, and attempted to assimilate into…. maybe under….. a tight knit group.
Imagine their puzzlement when Daddy, very politely, said, “Excuse me, guys. This one is mine.”
Imagine my utter exasperation when Daddy reached down, grabbed me my the roots of my red hair and drug my tight-short-skirt wearing, barefoot ass out the door.
Daddy escorted me to and into the limo, where he settled me across his lap. The girls were uncharacteristically subdued. My eyes focused on my scuffed toe nail polish. Daddy reached tenderly down, pulling first one foot and then the other into his lap, checking them for cuts. He gently slipped my shoes back on my feet. Completely lulled into a false sense of security, I begin to chirp about how great it will be to have Daddy as our personal escort for the night…… and then, we pulled in front of his house.
We exited the limo.
The girls did not.
The limo left.
Daddy led me to the front door, his hand ever at my low back, supporting my awkward, stiletto-induced gait. He opened the door, I took a deep breath, dropped my head and slunk inside. I heard his keys clatter into the silver tray. I heard the belt zing fee of his belt loops and waited for it, fully prepared to drop to my knees and receive my come-up-ins. Surprisingly, nothing happened. I turned and…. no Daddy. I heard the TV click on and the leather sofa settle.
Meekly, and more than a little cautiously, I peeked around the corner. There sat Daddy, shoes kicked off, feet on the coffee table, scotch in hand, watching TV.
My curiosity won out, and I scooted into the room. Nary even a glance from Daddy. I sidled to the sofa. Nada. I gingerly planted my soon to be blistered derriere on the sofa next to Daddy. He never moved a muscle.
“I’m sorry. I should have listened to you and gotten changed.”
“I’m in trouble?”
“Yes, kitten, you are very much in trouble.”
“Should I go get ready?”
It is at this moment that he lowered the bombshell that forever changed the course of my brathood from that day forward.
“You are ready, kitten. You’re in time out.”
“Yes, kitten, time out.”
“What does that even mean?”
“It means you will sit at the other end of the sofa and watch TV. You will sleep in the guest bedroom tonight. You will wear that outfit home tomorrow, in the daylight, in a taxi. I don’t make unreasonable requests, kitten. When I do make a request, I expect your obedience. There are reasons. I won’t allow you to place yourself in unsafe situations. I will always protect you from yourself. Had you changed, the evening would have been yours. As it is, you will spend the evening in time out.”
His calm tone, eyes focused on the TV, matter of fact statement launched me to my feet, into the stance in which I first began this sordid tale.
“YOU’RE NOT THE DOM OF ME!” a child’s last attempt to completely brat out and earn anything other than time out.
Daddy rose, calmly, took me by the arm, walked me down the hall, opened the guest bedroom door and put me inside.
“See you in the morning, kitten.”
Then, he closed the door.
No, I did not try the door knob. No, I did not stomp. No, I did not pout. No, I did not proceed to pitch a legendary tizzy fit.
I took off my outfit, got into bed, wiped away the tears that slipped out and properly adjusted my attitude.
While I may step right up to my boundaries, sometimes even stick out my tongue and wiggle my ass at them, I can promise you this, I do not brat my Daddy.