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“Aw, Baby, I’m so sorry I’m late, have you been waiting long? Ooo, you look so nice, Papi.”
“Well, thank you, you like nice too, but you are pretty late. I’ve been waiting twenty minutes, and love, not to be fussy, but I have asked you not to call me Papi.”
(Sitting down, biting lip a little) “Aw, I’m sorry Daddy. (See his expression) What, you don’t like that either? What should I call you then, my love, what do you like? Do you like Papa? You wanna be my Papa? I kind of like that.”
“I, er… Paul is also fine.”
(Groan) “Yes, he is. Can I just tell you, Papa, I’m really taken by you in that suit."
“You like that, do you?”
“Mmmhmmm, I love it when you go with the full 3-piece Big Daddy suit with the waistcoat. If you had a pocket watch on a chain goin’ on there, I’d be in terrible trouble right now. Gives me all the feelz, you know.”
“All the feelz,” you say. And shall I assume that’s spelled with a z, instead of an s.”
“You know me so well…I bet you cross your legs like that just because you know what it does to me. Papa is an awful flirt, I know.”
(Wiping a ciggie ash from his thigh). “It’s not flirting…”
“Oh, it is! You know it is. You cross your legs and lean forward and put your hand on your hip like I’m in trouble and… (biting nail, sighing) holy God. You make me want to be in trouble.”
“Stop squirming in your seat like that, love. And slouching over the table with your chin in your hands. Can you sit up, like an adult? Please? You’ve got me feeling like I’m with a teenager. An adolescent.”
(Leaning back. Biting on lip.) “I guess Papa wouldn’t like that?”
“No, Papa would not, and neither would Paul. He’s no cradle-robber. And this brat-act of yours--”
“Oh, it’s not an act, Daddy, I’m a real brat. The genuine article. You might have to do something about that.”
“And what would you suggest, then?”
“Well, you know, you could uncross your legs--”
“Nope. Last time I did that, you plopped yourself down on them right in public.”
“I did, didn’t I?” (Picking up a breadstick. Placing just the tip in your mouth). “That was a fun night.”
“A tart, you were.” (Taking it from your hand). “Just like now.”
“Yes, but you like tarts, handsome, because we all taste so good. At least that’s the strong impression you gave, after…”
“Ab-bap-bap-bap-- can you refrain from being that descriptive when someone is pouring water at the next table?”
“Well, I don’t know. I might need some cold water. Or, you know…you might.”
“You really are a brat.”
“You really are wearing that suit.”
“Again?”
“Well, it’s just so well-tailored on you. Fits you to a ‘T’.”
“Well, thank you, I do have a particular tailor I like—”
“I mean, thighs, inseam…everything is very…exact. Shows off all your… lines.”
(He’s actually blushing) “Ermmm…”
“I mean, those trousers fit you almost as if they were jeans. Although they zip properly, and your jeans never do. That’s bespoke for ya.”
(Annoyed; one eyebrow raised) “What’s wrong with my jeans, then?”
“Aw, don’t be mad, Daddy.”
“I’m not,” (Looks around, lowers his voice) “I’m not mad, and I’m not Daddy, remember.”
“Well, I’m sorry, but if you wear a suit like that, you give off all the mmm-daddy vibes. And there’s nothing wrong with your jeans. They’re fine. Just they never seem to zip up right at the top part.”
“At the waistband, you mean?”
“Mmm-hmmm”
“I’ve never noticed.”
“I have. You’re never quite all put together when you’re in jeans.”
“Is that a fact?”
“Mmm-hmmm, and I know why, too.”
(Shakes his head) “Well, you know what? I hear an invitation for me to ask ‘why’ in your flirty little remark, and I’m not going to fall for it, because this is a nice place and I know you’ll say something perfectly filthy.”
“I would never! But this is a nice place, thank you for inviting me here, Pa...Pa...Paul.”
“Miraculous. You know my name.”
“Well you know I do. I think there was a whole Soliloquy of Paul I recited for you not so long ago. How did that go again? Oh, right. ‘Paul! Paul! Oh God, Paul!’”
(Looking around room in panic). “You are incorrigible.”
“Yeah, sorry, Boss, but you earned that. But yeah, this place is nice, so I’ll be good. … It's romantic, too. Were you going for romance, then?”
(Smiling, resting cheek on one hand). “Maybe.”
“Oh, look at him, so coy. You were! (Biting lip again). And you did a good job of it. I’m feeling pretty toasty and we haven’t even had wine, yet…which reminds me, about your jeans…”
“Not listening.”
“You know why they never quite come together at the zipper top, right?
“Still not listening.”
“It’s cuzza you got a backside.”
(About to call waiter over. Stopped in his tracks.) “Wha- eh? Excuse me, did you just say ‘cuzza you’ to me?”
“Cuzza you backside, actually. Cuzza you curvy, there. My Daddy dummy thicc back there. Oops, sorry, I know you don’t like ‘Daddy’, but alliteration and stuff. You have dummy thicc, Daddy.”
“What does…” (Shakes head). “Can we at least make an attempt to speak the Queen’s English tonight? ‘You are’ not ‘you’. ‘Dummy thick’…and no doubt it’s spelled t-h-i-Q-U-E or something. What does that even mean, ‘dummy thick’? No, wait, don’t tell me, I don’t—”
(Singing, dancing in seat, but quietly) “I like big butts and I cannot lie…”
(Eyebrows way up, eyes flashing, voice tight. He’s hissing, now). “Stop that! Behave yourself!”
“Am I bein’ baaaad, Daddy?”
(Rolling eyes, leaning back in chair). “You’re being…so, so bad, honey. If we weren’t here I’d have you across my knee right now, and I’d be fanning your little ass.”
“T-h-i-c-c. That’s how it spelled. Thick, you know. T-h-i-c--”
“And I’d be using an English grammar primer to do it. Hardcover. Get busy on both cheeks at once.”
“Mmm, that would hurt me so bad, though…”
“'Badly' not 'bad'. And one spank for every time you said ‘you’ for ‘you are’, or ‘you got’ for ‘you’ve got.’
“Papa got a lotta rules in that book. So… it must be a big book, then?”
“Aye, very big. It’ll make your wee tushie so red it could heat up most of London. Bright, bright red.” (Quietly, with a warning look because here comes the waiter). “In any case, you’ll never say ‘thicc’ at me again after that.”
(Chortle)
“What?”
“Mmm…Nuthin’. Papa might not know me was well as I thought…”
“Nothing. There is a g in that word. And please don’t call me that.”
(Making a moue) “Hmphmm.”
“And don’t pout. You’re like a disappointed kitten.”
“You love that, though.” (Frowning as dinner it put before you) “What is this?”
“Salmon on sautéed spinach, and scrambled eggs. You’ll like it. It’s all wild, local, or free range.”
“But…wait, did you just order my dinner for me, without even asking what I wanted?”
“Yes, I did, earlier. When you were late. Remember that? I know you like salmon, but I also know that if left you to your own devices, you’d order something ridiculous like three fried appetizers and a whiskey.”
(Defiant; chin up) “So, what’s wrong with that?”
(Gives you a genuine Daddy staredown, which thrills you to your toes, and then watches the waiter pour. Approves the wine; dismisses waiter.)
“What’s ‘wrong’ with that is you’re an adult and your food choices would rival a twelve year-old’s. University diets have created a generation of perpetual food adolescents. Now, you’ll eat a very nutritious meal, with a salad, by the way, paired with this very nice wine… (raises his glass in a toast and brings on an irresistible look). “You keep saying you want a daddy? Well this is what a daddy does. Daddy takes care of baby.”
“Seems to me this daddy rants a bit…”
(Gives a sexy smile). It’s a very big primer, you know. Heavy. Leather-bound, too. With little carved swirly things on it. I can’t wait to see all the swirlies transferred on to your—"
(Groaning in absolute pleasure, but also being a brat). “Ohhh…yeah, I get it. You’re gonna mark me.”
“Not ‘gonna’. Going to. And oh, yes, mark you up. Big-time. How’s the fish?”
“It’s good. I didn’t think the eggs made sense, but it all goes together well. I like this.” (Deliberately, with lowered eyes), “Thank you, Daddy.”
“Your welcome, love. Have some salad.”
“I hate salad.”
“I know, baby, but you’ll eat it.”
(Chuckles) “You said ‘eat’.”
(Shakes his head in exasperation). “What did I just say? Permanent adolescent. I swear, it’s like having supper with Lennon.”
“I will eat, you know,” (Fluttering eyelashes). “I'll eat everything you say. Just not the salad.”
“Oh, aye, you will, or your cheeky ass will be redder than that tomato. At least half of the salad.”
“Nuh-uh. You should have ordered me lobster, though.”
“Excuse me?”
“I mean, this is real good, and I thank ya, mister. But if I had a lobster right now…I’d be tearing it out of the shell with my fingers, getting them all wet.”
(Stares at you with an amused smile). “I know what you’re about to do, love, and I’m immune to it.”
“And you know, after that, I’d have to like…swirl the meat into the butter, until it’s all slick. Have I ever told you how much I love butter?”
(Adjusts napkin in lap, attends to his own meal, head down and muttering). “Do you, though.”
“Yeah, I love it when it’s all melty on my fingers and I have to lick it off, one finger after another…and you know, catch it with my tongue before it slides down into my palm…”
(Coughing, taking a bit of water).
“And then once the lobster meat is all dazzled with butter,”
“I don’t think that’s the word you mean, dazzled…”
“Once it’s dazzled with butter, then I’d have to lick and suck at it and get all the juices mixed up, and then you know, nibble around the edges. Just you know…get the whole flavor in my mouth before I take a bite.”
(Groaning). “Are you human?”
(Casually). “But can’t do that with the salmon. Too flakey. Maybe next time bossy Papa will know to get the lobster…”
“Because baby likes to play…”
“Because baby really, really likes to play and get messy…”
“Eat your salad. A few forkfuls.”
“I won’t. Whatever else I’m eating, I’m not eating salad.”
(Sighs, drops fork noisily) “You know, brat...you a menace.”
(Pretending to be sad about it). “I know, Papa, but…hey, wait. Did you just say ‘you a menace’ to me?”
“So, what if I did?”
“Are you a grown-up? Can we have some Queen’s English, here? ‘You are’ instead of ‘you a’?”
“Mmmhmmm…And there you are with no butter on your fingers to tease me with, so what you gonna do about it, love?”
(Hands over mouth). “You said ‘you gonna’.”
“Got a problem with that?”
(Blushing. Licking lips.) “No, Daddy.”
“Damn right you don’t. I think we’ll forget about dessert, then, yeah, baby?”
(Sigh. Very long, drawn out sigh. Wicked smile.) “Aye. Whatever you say... Papi.”