Daddy

They say it unabashedly.

Sometimes a twenty-something,
half my size, will lean across the bar
to touch my leg. Hey, Daddy,
he says, can I buy you a beer?

Others in their late thirties
or mid-forties, some even
older than me. And still they
say it. In hushed baby talk.
Or a taunting whisper.
Part plea, part demand.
A bratty whine. Usually
punctuated with a hungry sigh
when I take off my belt.

They don’t want discipline.
Or humiliation. Just someone
bigger, I think. Someone hairier.
Someone who might demonstrate
self-assurance—easily mistaken
for power in the dark
after a couple drinks.

Daddy, don’t, they groan,
aiming their asses at me,
like cannons, thighs already
ajar. Please, Daddy, don’t!

My hard-on keeps me from
giggling. And wondering
how I got here. How they—
in their own self-assurance—
have cast me as their lead,
though clearly at best
I’m a supporting actor.