By Jaime M. Grant |

The moments I cherish the most in my sexuality are when I feel like I trip the wire of some part of my desire I know nothing about, and then an entire world of lust and pleasure opens up.

When I was in my 20s, I was living in rural central Pennsylvania, having a wild affair with my co-leader of a group for survivors of abuse in Muncy Prison. She was intensely masculine; this was an era when all things masculine were seen as capitulating to the patriarchy. I was femme identified but hiding myself in flannels and jeans, because it was seen as heterosexist “role playing” to femme up.

My co-leader (I call her “L” here) and I had just left our very intense group facilitation at the prison, with these women whom we loved fiercely, and were driving back to town when L pulled the car over to the side of the road and told me to take off my clothes.

I started stripping down and I could see how turned on she got with every move I made. I started to display myself for her as I took down the buttons on my sweater. She was losing it.  I was losing it. I turned toward her so she could see me fully, and then I said, “Daddy.”

Mind you, I had not read any Daddy-girl fantasies back in 1987. And, there was little to no lesbian-created Daddy-girl porn in print at that moment in our community’s history. “Daddy” fell out of my mouth because I could somehow feel that was what she wanted. And I could feel who I wanted to be for her in that moment.

That night, L tore me to pieces in the car. And that’s how I embarked on a lifetime of Daddy-girl play.



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