*A Fictional, fantasy, taboo infused work-in-progress involving the idea and practice of incest play and Father/daughter love.
I’ve told myself that the existence of leather is a new contemplation for me. It’s as if it just appeared into my adult life. It deliciously smothers bodies, drapes tight around implements of torture and is a common thread of improper connections; of which I am proudly a part of. Of course, this contemplation of leather is in part false. It’s not new; in fact it’s matured. The thought of leather, in reality, has traveled. It brings me to moments of my youth when I was a girl.
I’m the last born of three. The nice little nenita who’s grown up into some of the nice, all of the weird, battling sexual demons, straddling gender anomalies and residing in a trans Two-Spirit identity. I’m not a lady. I’m not a man either but I relish in those rare moments when I’m “Sir”-ed. So I rarely speak of the girl—the little girl I used to be for fear that my present self would be erased. I’ve learned that no matter what I express now, that young girl resurfaces and she is strong. The thought of leather resuscitates her and she cannot be ignored. The thought of leather or the feelings brought about by leather, invokes flashes of picture perfect story lines I’ve been ashamed to tell…until today.
The feeling always takes me to the hallway closet of the apartment I grew up in. It’s the closet my family used to hang our jackets, coats and store our sweaters. The closet my parents shared was overrun by my mother’s stuff, so my Pa had to use that closet instead. He’s a simple man. He didn’t need much space. His closet half empty with jeans, white T’s, work boots, short sleeve-button down-shirts called guayaberas, sweaters and his leather jacket. In fact the feeling brings me beyond the hallway closet and straight to him.
I was intrigued with my Pa! I wanted to be with him always. I’d wait for him at the threshold of our apartment. I’d listen for the elevator to slowly creep to a halt and open up. He’d waft out and walk quickly toward the apartment–toward me. Efficient, stern and quick–– he was, I’d hear the rustle of the leather jacket I’d often try on. It draped over me heavily. The arms hanging low to the ground. The body puffed out on the sides. I was lost and held secure by it. I anticipated with one flip-flopped foot in the house and the other cheating the threshold line. My right eye tried desperately to defy biology. I thought I could will-it to curve just a little to see Pa walking, without being seen. Rather than biological defiance, my body, not my eye, curved and popped out revealing myself to him. Excited, I’d run to him. Pa always acted surprised for my benefit. He’d whip his cool police-shades off, drop to one knee and wait for my powerful pounce and embrace. I sunk into his body, his jacket. Life was pumped into my lungs as I took in the merging of scents–leather, beer and cigarettes. That was his essence–his machismo. Papi was everything! He kind of looked like a Latino Wolf Man Jack–full beard, mustache and a head full of wavy hair bordering an Afro. He scooped me up into his strong arms to walk me the rest of the way to our front door. I’d nestle my small nose in the crook of his neck and the horizon of the leather collar. I felt safe. That strength and safety embraced me for years.
My dad was a blue-collar hard worker. Pa worked his last job for 25 years. Twenty -two years at the site where the towers once stood and the remaining 3 elsewhere– after they were taken down. He worked the night shift. He arrived home every night after midnight. My siblings and I would already be tucked away in bed but none-the-less Pa had a ritual to complete. He’d smoke a cigarette out front before entering the apartment complex, rode the elevator up, entered our home and b-lined it to our rooms–– first checking on my brother and ending with my sister and I. For years, I thought he only checked in on me. I was the baby of the house and his special bebe. His scent would claim the room as he cracked the door to peer in. I’d always wake up to it. Eyes heavy with grit, holding my arms high up into the air to steal some hard hugs and float back to sleep.
Those leather, beer and smoke infused hugs and late night check-ins dwindled, as I got older. Mami told me once that Pa stopped hugging me because he wanted to be respectful of my maturing body. My heart was broken. I thought I’d always be his little girl. I missed the drift of him in my room, my face nesting on his shoulder and my nose dug deep into leather and neck. I longed for that safety–that love.
I’ve been on a quest for that. A quest for love, strength, dedication and safety I received from my Papi. Since then, that sweet, excited girl has evolved and the remembrance of my Pa in all his hunkiness, leather and love has come to a new fruition. I have proudly taken hold of the Electra Complex and molded it to get me off and hang me off edges of psychological play. I live my life as an in-control, confident person but at night, in the dark and in secret, I have delved deep into the girl. She has gone through many transformations as a victim, vulnerable, needy, loving, nasty and manipulative. The thought of leather pin-points the mapping of my sick desires and allows me to take that journey. I consent to it!
I re-write, re-imagine, re-live and revel in Father/daughter love. This taboo offers me what I long for and need. It gives me those moments––those lovely moments, tender and real. I soak those moments with new desire–a construction of memories and yearning. Shifting reality about the training bra Pa never saw me in, the panties he never sniffed and the pampers he never tore off to get to me. I twist and probe the darkest reaches of my psyche to grasp onto what scares me the most, what makes me vulnerable and what makes me hard. It delves in obscenity, harbors sinful fantasies and borders a truth. Being a little girl had been my secret. The fact that her existence rests firmly on incestuous taboo is but a small detail.