Don’t know what a femme daddy is? Keep reading.
“How did your date go last night?” my friend J* asked me one afternoon over an outdoor rosè at Blenheim, a tiny bistro right next door to the legendary Cubbyhole bar in the West Village. We knew we needed to have a civilized proper meal and a bougie glass of wine before entering the debauchery that surely would ensue inside the sparkly-ceilinged four-walls of cubby.
“Ugh, she’s kind of a fuckboy,” I spat, watching the pretty pink liquid swish around my pretty stemmed glass.
“Elaborate,” J declared, lighting up a cigarette.
“Hey, you can’t smoke out here!” shrieked a blonde woman at the table next to us. She was picking at a green salad and looked, well, hungry.
“It’s outside. You can smoke outside.” J rolled her eyes. “Bitch,” she hissed under her breath.
I nodded my head in solidarity. I don’t smoke (anymore), but this is New York City; it isn’t exactly eco. It’s not the blue lagoon in Iceland.
The woman loudly huffed and puffed, but we ignored her dismay. We’re dykes. We have a collective thick skin, and we’re used to traumatizing hungry blondes with our naturally abrasive presence.
“So you want to know why the girl I went on a date with was a fuckboy? Well, for starters, she ‘forgot’ her wallet, which is annoying as hell because she chose to meet at the goddamn Mercer Kitchen, which is super expensive. And she ordered, like, four martinis. And she arrived buzzed! Which, normally, I wouldn’t exactly mind, but she wasn’t fun buzzed, she was slurry buzzed. Arriving drunk to a date at this stage in life is tacky. Also, she wasn’t exactly intellectually stimulating. Ok, fine. I won’t sugarcoat it: She was as dumb as nails! Also, she seemed needy. Like, I could tell she needed a lot of caretaking, which is so boring. I don’t want to take care of anyone. I’m over dating women in their twenties with drinking problems and perpetually ‘lost’ wallets!” I was shouting now. I was sick of this shit!
J took a long, soulful pause, her blue-green eyes appeared to be gazing into the distance at a reality, a truth, far more profound than the rest of us could digest. “You need a daddy,” she said softly but firmly.
“A ‘daddy?’” I took a gulp of wine. “I have a daddy. His name is Richie and he lives in Florida! And I don’t call him daddy, because that’s creepy. I call him dad.”
“Not an actual ‘dad’ daddy,” She lowered her voice and raised a suggestive brow. “A daddy.”
“Now it’s your turn to elaborate.” I flagged down the waiter. “Another round please!”
“A daddy is a badass woman who will take care of you. She has her shit together. She knows how to do grownup shit, like make reservations. She’s good in bed. She has sophisticated taste in restaurants. She’ll order you a car home. She’s the opposite of a fuckboy.”
I sank into my seat and took in J’s daddy description. “Where do I sign up?” I asked, eagerly. I could feel my eyes glimmering from all the raw excitement swishing through my system.
“You need to change your taste in women. Your mindset. You won’t draw in daddies if you continue to radiate fuckboy energy.”
Suddenly, I felt frozen in fear. I felt hungry, ravenous for a daddy, yet also terrified I would never rid myself of “fuckboy energy,” whatever the hell that meant.
J was an intuitive lesbian and she could tell I was spiraling. “It’s okay. Just break your addiction to fuckboys, start acting a little more grownup — e.g., stop blacking out on the weekends and maybe don’t wear ripped tights seven days a week — and you’ll be sure to find a daddy.”
I wanted to bite back, but J was right. I myself was a fuckboy, which is why I kept drawing in fuckboys. I got drunk constantly and always had cigarette burns in my dresses (this was a while ago, ladies. Now I’m an angel. Purr).
A few weeks later, I met M.
M and I matched on Tinder and just through gazing at the pictures floating across her profile, I could tell she was not only beautiful, but she had her shit together. Her hair was long and dark and silky. In her pictures, she was dressed up in silky cream-colored blouses and fitted black pants and expensive-looking boots. I took a screenshot of M and sent it to J minutes before I left for our first date.
Everything about my date with M was the complete opposite of how it had been with the fuckboy just a few weeks prior. M didn’t just ramble on and on about herself, she asked me interesting, thought-invoking questions. She understood the art of conversation. In fact, my brain hadn’t worked out so hard in ages. One glass of Prosecco deep, and I became hyper-aware of how utterly narcissistic and thick-headed so many of the fuckboys I’d dated had been.
By the end of our two-hour soiree, I couldn’t help but notice I had only consumed two glasses of prosecco, unheard of for a lush like moi. She had been so engaging that I hadn’t even had the slight urge to catch a buzz.
“I don’t want to keep you too long; I know you have to work early,” I said primly, really hamming up the illusion that I was an innocent good girl. “Shall we get the check?”
“I already paid for it.”
“Huh?” I was dumbfounded.
“Yes, I gave them my card when you went to the bathroom,” M smiled warmly. “I wouldn’t let you pay.”
I was moved. Not relieved that she had paid the bill, but moved that she had been so mindful and thoughtful.
“I’ll get you a car home,” she said, gently draping my trench coat over my shoulder.
We stepped outside into the spring-laden, flower-fragrant air. She grabbed me and kissed me. It was a confident kiss. As her lips firmly pressed against mine, I felt no hesitation or fear from her. It was a kiss that didn’t apologize. It knew what the fuck it was doing. It was hot. The car pulled up to the curb. She sauntered over to the car, her hand firmly clasped in mine. She tapped on the window with her bright red nail. She confirmed it was the car she had ordered (she even checked that the license plate matched the one the uber app! Swag!).
On the car ride home, I had a realization. M was a daddy. She was a femme daddy. She had femme energy and fierce femme style, but knew how to “daddy” a date. And contrary to popular opinion, a femme can indeed be a daddy. After all, I of all people know that a femme can do anything.
I really began to appreciate femme daddies (and serial date them) after that night. There is nothing sexier (to me) than a woman who can rock heels and a shiny blow-out and hold open a door and book a dinner reservation.
However, a lot of my lez friends seem perplexed by the concept of the femme daddy.
“How can she be a daddy? I thought daddies were butches?” they’ll ask, their eyes as wide as saucers.
A dyke can be femme. A dyke can be butch. A dyke can be a stud. A dyke can be a princess. So can a daddy. Daddy is an energy. Not a style.
It’s funny that even in our little community, misogyny somehow taints everyone’s view. Well, it taints most people’s views, but not femme daddies! Femme daddies live in a culture that tells them that, in order to be a proper daddy, they must have masculine-presenting style. But they say “F*ck that, I’m going to daddy and wear a sparkly designer dress.” And what’s sexier than a woman who does whatever the hell she desires and doesn’t succumb to stupid, arbitrary societal standards? Nothing.