Daddy Read online

  This is a Genuine Barnacle Book

  A Barnacle Book | Rare Bird Books

  453 South Spring Street, Suite 531

  Los Angeles, CA 90013

  abarnaclebook.com

  rarebirdbooks.com

  Copyright © 2014 by Madison Young

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever, including but not limited to print, audio, and electronic. For more information, address:

  A Barnacle Book | Rare Bird Books Subsidiary Rights Department, 453 South Spring Street, Suite 531, Los Angeles, CA 90013.

  Set in Goudy Old Style

  Distributed in the U.S. by Publishers Group West

  Publisher’s Cataloging-in-Publication data

  Young, Madison.

  Daddy : a memoir / Madison Young / with a foreword by Annie Sprinkle.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 978-1-940207-31-5

  1. Young, Madison. 2. Pornography—United States—Case studies. 3. Sex-oriented businesses—United States—Employees—Biography. 4. Bondage (Sexual behavior). 5. Fetishism (Sexual behavior). 6. Sex customs—United States—Case studies. 7. Fathers and daughters—Biography. 8. Feminism—United States. 9. Sexual minorities—United States. I. Sprinkle, Annie. II. Title.

  HQ472.U6 Y68 2013

  363.4/7—dc23

  For the quiet girl in the corner waiting for the moment

  to sound her voice. Follow your truth.

  “We are like sculptors, constantly carving out of others the image we long for, need, love or desire, often against reality, against their benefit, and always, in the end, a disappointment, because it does not fit them.”

  —Anaïs Nin

  Foreword

  Hi. I’m Annie Sprinkle and I’ll be your guide into the journey that is this book. Think of me as your sparkly good witch welcoming you to a magical, kinky kingdom where a beautiful feminist porn princess, Madison Young, tries to win the heart—and cock—of a handsome, charming, sexy prince, Sir James Mogul. There are no lions, tigers, or bears. That’s kids stuff. This kingdom is for adults only. There are sex slaves, bondage babes, and fire breathing green-eyed monsters. Oh my! We are going way, way, way over the rainbow. Just wait until you find out who is really running the show from behind the curtain! And it’s not Daddy!

  So why did Madison Young ask me to be the one to welcome you into her life story and first book? First, I am Madison’s “kinky fairy godmother,” and she is my darling “porn-art daughter.” We met nine years ago when she was curating an exhibit for her very own art gallery, Femina Potens. She called me up and asked to show some of my work. I loaned her a large photograph I had made of a naked woman with a full beard, crucified on a cross. We have been collaborating in art, and in life, ever since, and have become family. I adore her! Second, a long time ago (1973-1995), on the isle of Manhattan, I was a reigning “Queen of Kink.” I made porn movies, fetish videos, and worked at the Hell Hole Hospital as a dom, sub, and nasty nurse. On weekends I haunted the Hell Fire Club where I cast many sexy spells. Eventually I transitioned into a life of experimental art, sex education, and doing theater about my life. You see, I helped pave the kinky brick road that Madison would follow, follow, follow early in her career. Madison has since paved an all-new kinky brick road uniquely her own. It’s a vastly improved, high-tech super highway, which many newbie pleasure artists today follow, follow, follow. Madison has gone from a bondage princess to today’s reigning Queen of Kink, and a premier body based performance artist and successful gallerist of edgy art. She carries the fiery torch with great pride, wisdom, and grace.

  So, before you slip into this bedtime story and fondle its sensuous pages…before you savor its juicy details…allow me to make a few suggestions. Take what you like and leave the rest.

  Have no expectations. Because this book probably won’t be what you expect.

  Keep an open mind. Taboos will be broken. Gettin’ all judgmental is no fun, and it doesn’t feel good. So try and keep an open mind, at least until you get to the end of the story.

  Open your heart and feel Madison Young’s love flow from these pages. This book is Madison’s gift to you. Let yourself receive it.

  Savor the “naughty bits.” Warning! Parts of this tale/tail are sexually explicit! Go ahead, enjoy ‘em!

  Be grateful for your freedoms. There are plenty of countries whose governments absolutely would not allow this material into the hands of its citizens. How privileged are we?

  Don’t let this book make you feel sexually inadequate. Few people can outkink my darling porn daughter! She’s a fierce BDSM gladiator, boldly going where few women dare. James is a master alchemist of sexual ecstasy. Do not compare yourself. Few of us are at their level.

  Wear sexy outfits while reading this book. Especially glittery red high heeled slippers you can click together. Or simply wear rope. You will feel like you are there!

  Check out Madison and James’ work online. You can actually view the erotica, porn, and art Madison writes about. You will know the real life back-stories.

  If after you read this book, you would like to meet Madison and James in the flesh, check out their workshops, appearances, and performances. Mail them a card, pop them an email, offer them gigs, send them presents! They are mythic characters but relatively accessible—if you are worthy.

  Do not try these advanced BDSM techniques at home, unless you are properly trained. They can be dangerous! This said, the training is a helluva lot of fun, so sign up!

  Now just follow the kinky brick road, and see what happens. Can Madison Young win the heart of Sir James? How does Sir James get so many women to kneel at his feet and submit to his titillating tortures? How does James’ magic camera spin digital images into gold? Can Madison maintain her feminist identity and woman of power status while bottoming to a man? Will Sir James drink the potion and fall down the rabbit hole? What will Madison do when she gets pregnant? A baby in the life of the royal couple of kink? That’s really edgy! Who’s Daddy anyway?

  This is a story about sexual fantasies becoming realities. It is a rare peek into the life of one very special woman who has made sexuality her life’s path and work. This is also very much a story about family, self-awareness, and about gaining wisdom through excess. I can vouch for its authenticity. I was there. This story is honest, and true.

  It has been my honor to be your good witch to welcome you on this journey. Now go! Before the Wicked Witch shows up.

  —Annie Sprinkle

  With Your Consent

  I will take you on a journey. We will journey together, giving and taking, experiencing pain and pleasure; you as the reader, I as the read. I lay my heart bare, simple, raw, beating, human, and emotional with truth of honesty and vulnerability, fear and heroism. I offer you myself—a piece of me, not all of me—a slice to connect with, to touch, to feel. I cannot hear the consenting “yes” seep from your lips, but by the simple turn of this page you will be physically consenting to this journey, to this scene, between me and you. I feel your eyes upon my words. Consider carefully the risks, the beauty, the parts of your psyche that you will be allowing me into; the energy that you will be sharing with me as you clutch these pages in your damp, sweaty hands and go further, exploring your depths and mine. Know that this is a carefully constructed container in which you and I are equals. We play different roles and have different histories written on our hearts, but in the construction of this, here in these negotiations of consent, we are equals. If in your reading things get too intense, if you want to slow down, if you need to dog-ear my pages and get a drink of water, do so. Listen to your body; we will pace ourselves as we explore our edges. If you n
eed to use a safeword, do so, close the book, leave the room, go for a walk, and breathe deeply. I will not take offense. Instead, I will respect you even more for knowing yourself, for communicating your needs and meeting them. I give of myself in these pages with trust, honesty, intimacy, and respect. I write because I am a writer. I speak because too many are silent. I make space for human error because we are flesh and blood. With love we grow.

  With the first blush of sunrise seeping through the clouds outside the airplane window, I settle my heavy, sleepless eyes on the horizon. Between my toddler’s teething and late-night preparations for the coming weekend’s conference, sleep is far away from my reality. I take slow sips from a plastic cup fizzing with an iced energy drink, and gaze over at my fifteen-month-old daughter peacefully asleep in her father’s arms. This is a rare moment of solitude in the flurry of activity that constitutes our lives. Hopeful for a moment like this, I had armed myself with a stack of magazines to browse during the flight. I thumb through my stash: Entrepreneur (“How to Launch a Disruptive Company”), Parents (“No-Scream Discipline”), Bloomberg Businessweek (“XXX: Three letters could make the Internet safe from porn and more lucrative for pornographers,” with neon illustrations of women in fishnets and handcuffs pole dancing around the large pink X’s of the cover headline). I settle on a copy of The Atlantic with a photograph of a working mother in a tweed skirt holding a briefcase; a ten-month-old doe-eyed, shirtless baby with chestnut colored ringlets sits in the briefcase, staring at the reader.

  On the plane, sitting in the aisle seat, I feel my body tense. My stomach knots and suddenly lurches. I reach for a stiff white paper bag in the seat back pocket in front of me and open it, just in time. The taste of acid sours my mouth, burning my gums. I sit back and, with my eyes closed, take a deep swig of the fizzing energy drink. A passenger in the row across from me leans over and says, “Keeping your eyes on the horizon helps with air sickness.”

  I nod—“Hey, thanks”—and take another pull from the sweet, icy beverage, then ring for the flight attendant to remove the sloshing bag of vomit from my lap before it triggers another round of nausea. I look over at my daughter, still sound asleep. James is cradling Emma close to his chest, her drool wets his T-shirt as his drool soaks the airline provided pillow.

  Paging through the magazine, I land on an essay about Jacqueline Bouvier Kennedy and John F. Kennedy that details recently released audio interviews with Jackie about their relationship. It’s a flawed fairytale that feels achingly familiar. Why is it that it feels so easy, so natural, to fall in love with Camelot? Jackie’s descriptions of John as a dashing daddy, a hero, and a beloved Prince, mirrors the words that I might use to describe the father of my child: Jackie spoke of John as an excellent father. He would read to the children at night and the Oval Office was always open for them to pop into. Even castles house families.

  When the world feels like it’s just too much to bear, like it would take a superhero to handle the chaos of everyday life, it seems essential to have an entity to look up to, someone that can make everything okay with the touch of their powerful hand and a kiss on the forehead. Some people have prayer; they believe in God or a higher power. I believe in Daddy.

  My heart begins to race as I read further into the article knowing that the author will remind me of my shattered fairytale fantasy. I look over at Daddy as tears well up in my eyes. I read about one of John’s mistresses, Mimi Alford, a secretarial intern for the president. The president’s indiscretions remind me of my partner’s not so distant infidelity. It’s been nearly a year and a half since the incident, but we are still healing, and in this moment I feel the pain and betrayal that Jackie must have felt, that my own mother must have felt when my father strayed from their marriage. I feel the pain, jagged and hard to swallow, catching in my airway, making it hard to breathe.

  I continue to read, but I want to stop. I want to close my eyes and escape into the safe, fantasy world that has protected me so many times in the past. I know how to get there. It’s an escape that I am familiar with, blocking out everything around me and transcending to a safe space, enveloped in safe arms. I finish the article and close the magazine, tucking it into the pocket of the airplane seat in front of me. I exhale, close my eyes, and quietly whisper to myself:

  Be gentle with yourself. Be gentle with others. Be gentle with the world around you.

  It is a mantra I’d first come up with while navigating my new baby girl through emotional peaks and tantrums. I found the phrases mutually beneficial for my own turmoil and my own fresh wounds.

  I recall the words of the therapist that I have been seeing for about six months. Alex would say, “Name the feeling. Allow it to exist. Recognize its existence and how it is affecting your body. Breathe, and give yourself permission to let go of that feeling.” It is painful to venture forward with a partner with whom trust must slowly rebuild. I recognize Jackie’s pain as my own and as I exhale a deep breath, I feel that emotion leave my body, plunging the toxic residue of past resentment, jealousy, and fear from my body. I close my eyes knowing that it will take many a deep breath before this ache is dull, before I can fully accept the words “I love you” from my partner again without doubt. But there is a space opening in my heart, a small crevice, and with every deep breath, with every deep kiss and long embrace, the space opens a little more. In that space there is a new us growing, fumbling awkwardly at times through date nights and dark bedrooms, with buttons on blouses and impossible bra straps. But when his hands find their way to my quivering body, we fit neatly, passionately together. We are lovers from a past life with muscle memory in our fingers and hips and lips and cock, which all know just how to dance with one another. I breathe and I make space for the us that exists now because I believe in love.

  I want to believe that we are all a little more heroic than we are flawed, that the honorable role of Daddy does exist. I believe in my Daddy.

  Some of my earliest memories are of my parents’ divorce. My father left when I was four. In response, my mother threw things and screamed, and my dad tried to deflect her beating fists and flailing legs. I hid behind the couch with Miss Piggy earmuffs over my ears and closed my eyes. I hoped I could make all of the fighting disappear by wiping away the sights and sounds of their brawl.

  When my dad left, I somehow knew he wasn’t coming back. I cried, and burrowed my head and body under pink covers, sobbing until I fell asleep. Hours later, I groggily awoke to the scent of pork chops, fresh buttermilk biscuits, and au gratin potatoes. I was hungry, my young body worn out from the emotional hurricane and grasping for an understanding of what had just happened. My baby brother, only a year old, was always crying. My only memory of him from this time is of a loud, faceless being that pulled my mom’s attention away from me.

  When my mom had screamed at my dad earlier, she swore. There were profanities and words that flew over my four-year-old head, but the one word that stuck with me was prostitute. It felt full of power and shame, and I saw how it enraged my mother as it fell with disgust from her trembling mouth.

  “Mom? Mom? Hey, Mom?” I reached across the round oak kitchen table and tugged at my mom’s magenta satin sleeve while my mother spooned mashed sweet potatoes into my sobbing baby brother’s mouth.

  “Yes, Tina. What is it?” My mother sighed deeply and closed her eyes, emotionally exhausted, not really ready for the question itching at my young curious mouth.

  “What’s prostitute?” I asked, biting my lip and squinting my eyes as I struggled to pronounce the awkward word. It sounded a bit like a church or a deadly disease.

  “What? Where did you hear that word, Tina?” My mother dropped the sweet potatoes onto the table and pointed the baby spoon in my direction with great concern.

  “You yelling at Dad.” I diverted my eyes in shame and stared into a plate full of now unappetizing dinner. My stomach was unsettled by the tension I’d inadvertently started.
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  “Hmmph...your dad has paid a woman to sleep with him. When a man pays a woman to sleep with him in his bed that makes her a prostitute.” My mother’s tone was bitter and pained, sharp and prickly. Perhaps she was too exhausted to play make-believe or feed me a story.

  “Why’s Dad sleepin’ with a prostitute? Daddy sleeps in our house. Right, Mom?” In my four-year-old mind I imagined my charitable father extending our family bed in the same fashion I had shared a sleeping bag with one of my Girl Scout members or friends from kindergarten. I hoped this prostitute didn’t mind Dad’s snoring.

  “That’s a good question, Tina. Your dad seems to think he’s in love.” My mother’s voice was pained as the palms of her hands ran up the landscape of her face, grasping at the roots of her platinum blonde hair.

  “Maybe she’s poor? Maybe Dad is helping?” It seemed obvious to me that my father was providing a place to sleep for a woman who didn’t have a home. Right? Why couldn’t my mother see that? Why was she so upset?

  “Your father just wants to help himself! Can we please talk about this later, Tina? Finish your dinner and head off to bed, ya hear?”

  “Mom! I want Daddy! Call him, please? I wanna tell him something. I wanna tell him good night.”

  My mom led me into her bedroom to the rotary phone and dialed a long string of numbers that she had scribbled down on a sheet of paper, numbers that might reach my dad. I needed to hear my dad’s voice, I wanted to hear him say, “Tina, everything is going to be okay, I promise.” I watched the phone with bated breath as the rotary dial made its slow way around in circles, hoping to conjure up comfort from my dad.

  “Come on, Richard, pick up,” my mom mumbled under her breath. The phone rang, but there was no answer.

  “Tina, your dad isn’t there.” I glared at her in disbelief and ran to my room. I sat on my bed sobbing and holding a photo of my dad and me playing in the autumn leaves earlier that year. Suddenly, the world felt cold and snowy and everything had changed.