I am, despite quite a lot of things, a woman of faith. I go to church, I'm kind of pagan too...like to think of myself as an Earth-Centered Catholic. But at the core of it all, deep down inside, I do believe in a God. Do believe in a kind of Universal Truth. Do see magic in the beauty of the world around us, and the spark of God in the eyes of each person I meet.
One thing that I've never really been able to believe in for myself is God sitting at a big desk, listening to our prayers on speaker phone and deciding which to answer based on some sort of Big Magic 8-Ball or something. I just don't think that God drags us around by a string, or makes things happen to fix our lives when they are a mess. What I do believe in though, are little nudges in the ribs, moments when He is standing behind us, coughing into His hand, saying "*ahem* I believe we've tried this lesson before young lady..."
Several times in the past few days, I've felt that nudge, heard that polite cough, and tried my best to ignore it. But it kept coming and coming and coming...and eventually I decided to listen.
This time, the lessons were several (and old, tired lessons they are--but apparently very difficult for me to learn and heed). The biggest being--It Is Not About You. Truly, life isn't about me...life is about living, and loving, and sharing and opening yourself. Life isn't or shouldn't be about stagnation, fear of pain and rejection, and holding myself so close, so tightly that my armor is inpenetrable.
Life is technicolor vivid, loud as a carnival, bright, scented, vibrating with passion and love. My life has often rolled by like a slow grey parade while I stayed shut up in the garrett of my mind watching through the shutters as it passed. Why? Because I have been wrapped up in ME for far too long. Too worried about me getting hurt, too worried about my feelings, about my ego, panicking and running from everything that made me the least uncomfortable, was difficult or painful.
I've been so convinced everything is about me that I couldn't open the window, can't open my arms, and my heart and give without worrying about what I'm going to get.
But that is no way to live. It is no way to love. And it is not at all submission. I need to give myself--my time, my service, my patience, my love, my trust and my very will to the one who loves me and cherishes me as his prized possession. He doesn't know all the answers, doesn't really know where we are going, isn't perfect, isn't infallible--but he loves me, and acts out of that love. In calling myself slave, in offering myself to him this way, I have to let him hold my hand to guide me. Sometimes it is going be uncomfortable, going to be difficult and hurt like hell, but out of that will come joy, peace and growth.
Sir, I am yours. There is no place I'd rather be, than kneeling at your feet, nothing I'd rather do than what is in service to you, nothing could make me happier than your pride in me. I am slave, You are Master, and I open my hands, and my heart for you to own.
How lovely to be a woman,
The wait was well worth while;
How lovely to wear mascara
And smile a woman's smile.
How lovely to have a figure,
That's round instead of flat;
Whenever you hear boys whistle,
You're what they're whistling at.
It's wonderful to feel
The way a woman feels;
It gives you such a glow just to know
You're wearing lipstick and heels!
The person who wrote these lyrics is obviously a man.
(it was a man, Charles Strouse btw)
Cramps, cramps, cramps. Ick, ick, ick.
Beauty of the reproductive system my ass.
I just dunno. About a lot of things. I don't want to be a grown up anymore.
I want to curl in a ball, and sleep for about a week; emerging as a different person whom nobody knows, and nobody wants to know.
That about sums it up.
Bluh.
I almost, ALMOST posted this to a discussion group on Fetlife.
It is a group I normally adore reading--Suck it Up Buttercup. Great stuff there, lovely fun opinionated ladies.
But, then they had this discussion: Rape
And I just couldn't stop reading. I commented once, and should never have gone back to read more. But I did, and nearly posted the below. I'm glad I didn't, because frankly--the poster who said "nobody cares about your rape" is right. To which I add, "nobody wants to think about this, and are taking the agressive position to avoid having to stare the reality of this in the face"
Had I posted there, it wouldn't have gotten a decent read, and certainly any thought. But I feel the need to say this in a publicish forum (for some reason) and so you, my dear lucky readers get to hear it. Some day, some day...I will post more on this subject, but...it isn't one that A) is pleasant B) you probably even want to read about. So...someday.
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@butchbrutus "The word Rape, is powerful, savage, cruel and degrading in nature. It commands absolute submission, which is why is it used so often and frequently in the fetish world. One man pain is another mans pleasure."
Rape does not command absolute submission. Rape has NOTHING WHATSOEVER to do with sex, sexuality or eroticism. It is an act of violence, of malice, of crime. Submission is a choice--sometimes roughly taken, but always consensual, and freely given out of love, trust and will.
Other things that are acts of crime and malice: Mugging, robbery, vehicular homicide, car theft... Nothing pleasureable about any of those.
The thing I think, and yes I'm about to Not Suck It Up, we are missing in this discussion is--rape is not about the victim. Ever. It is about the rapist, his need to hurt, his malice, him him him. I've worked with convicted serial sex offenders--ask them if they remember anything about their victims. Name, hair color, size, clothing... Double dog dare you. They don't, because they didn't care enough about the victims (even those they knew) to remember. Could have been, and in reality was...any and every woman (or man). Submission is about both partners. And yes, I hate that word being used in joking context, as a description of rough sex. And yes, I LOVE, absolutely LOVE rough, violent sex. I love being taken by Master, being owned. Love being pushed, being used, being Forced. Because I have chosen to give that to him. I. Have. Chosen.
Is it because I have been a victim of rape? No, not at all. I would also have issues with the use of Holocaust, Incest, and Murder in a sexual or joking context.
Do I think others should have to stop using Rape to describe kinky sex? No, of course not. This is freaking FetLife, just about anything goes. Should I be told to shut up and suck it up because I don't like it, of course not. Two sides to every coin; respect mine--or at least not imply that I'm a Censor Sent From Hell To Harsh Everyone's Kink For Having A Divergent Opinion--and I'll respect yours.