Apr 182014
 

I’m so fucking sick of this “domestic servitude” bullshit… because it’s bullshit.*

poster of domestic serviceIn a heterosexual, vanilla relationship where both partners take on traditional gender roles, the woman does the bulk of the household chores to make the home functional, clean, and organized. When she does this kind of work, it’s called “doing chores,” or “housework.” Sometimes it isn’t called anything at all because it’s invisible labor – it’s stuff that gets done despite the fact that there’s no remuneration, no deadlines, and no real payoff. She gets shit done because shit needs doing.

In a heterosexual, kinky relationship where the woman is the dominant partner, when the submissive male does the chores, it’s called “domestic service.” The male sub does “domestic service” to make his “queen” happy, to elicit her praise, and to earn rewards. He gets shit done because he’s being a “good submissive” — but really, he does it because it turns him on, because it’s part of his fantasies, and because he expects sexy payoffs in return.

I’ve been in a couple of live-in, vanilla, heterosexual relationships where my male partner and I assumed “traditional gender roles.” But for the life of me, I can’t remember one single time that I washed the windows to make my boyfriend smile — I washed windows because they were fucking filthy. I never folded socks and expected praise — I did laundry because neither of us enjoyed wearing stinky socks. Not once did I scrub the toilet in the hopes he would reward me with a vigorous fingerbang.

I never did chores to be subservient to my partners, I did them because they needed done and because that’s the way we decided to split the labor.

To my partners’ credit(s), not once did any of my boyfriends ever change the oil in my car and expect an enthusiastic handy afterwards. I can’t recall a boyfriend ever balancing my checkbook hoping for a blowjob. I don’t think any of the men I’ve lived with took out the trash to make me smile.

They never did their chores because they were subservient, or because they wanted to be subservient — they did stuff because stuff needed done and that was the way we divided the labor.

So let’s be clear here, male subs. In most cases, “domestic service” isn’t about “serving her.” It’s about you. It’s not about getting shit done, making her happy, or “worshiping” her. It’s about what turns you on and what makes you feel subby. It’s about fitting both you and your wife or girlfriend into roles you decided on. It’s about you expecting “domination” in exchange for “domestic servitude.”

And it fucking sucks.

For the record, there’s a difference between “submissive” and “subservient” and your false conflation is neither.

line-break-flourish-sm

I know, I know — people should be able to do whatever they want to do as long as it isn’t hurting anyone else.

But it kinda is. This whole “man + chores = service” thing isn’t helping women. Maybe it’s helping one woman, or a handful of women (and maybe they love it*), but it isn’t helping women in general.

Of course, you’re entitled to do whateverthefuck you want. You’re entitled to write about it, and you have every right to preach the doctrine of subservience as a means to happiness, handjobs, and heaven.

But you should know it’s fucking offensive to those of us who have been doing “domestic service” for generations for no other reason than shit needs getting done (oh, and because men and culture and patriarchy made us think it was our job).

So you can do it, you can write it, you can preach it, but I don’t have to like it. And I don’t. I wish you would cut it the fuck out because it’s kind of sexist, and presumptuous, and it’s pretty fucking condescending to women (…you know… those people you “worship”).


*There are exceptions to every rule, so STFU about your really really real efforts to be submissive and how much your wife or girlfriend really really appreciates it. I’m sure she does. (Also, shouldn’t you be getting that handjob right now? I mean, you totally did the dishes, right?)

“Works Progress Administration maid poster” (1939) from the Library of Congress, digital ID: cph.3b49400. Image is in the public domain.

Apr 162014
 
cammies-header

Photo courtesy of Cammies on the Floor

Welcome to Elust #57 -

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I’ve Got 99 Problems

Vasectomy Blues

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Aoyama Yuki and My Very First Times

I don’t know how to be happy

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Apr 142014
 

So, it’s not even a month into spring and I’m feeling it.

I hate the spring — it’s full of falling shoes, work stress, ugly anniversaries, and the ever-present undertoad looming just around the corner.

Since the vernal equinox, not even one month in, I discovered some schmuck stole my identity and racked up a fuck ton of charges at a shameful big box store I don’t even patronize. And what’s worse, somehow, the schmuck also managed to lease a new car in my name.

Must be nice. Getting a new car doesn’t sound like a bad idea, actually, because I just got rear-ended the other day. Not only did I get rear-ended… I got rear ended by a van full of Baptists who called out to Jesus for help and offered to pray the damage away. As of this moment, my back bumper has yet to be “healed.”

With all of that going on, I’m actually kind of okay.

Want proof? This post is proof. As long as I’m still a bit snarky-angry-biting (finding ironic humor in having my identity stolen to buy a new car after being rear-ended by a bunch of Baptists), then it means I’m dealing. It’s when I get quiet that you should be worried.

Granted, I haven’t been on Twitter much, but that’s not cause for alarm. I haven’t been on Twitter in part because I’m busy, and in part because I don’t want to be a rag all over everyone’s feeds. I fucking hate Twitter rags, so I certainly don’t intend to be one. (I’d prefer to keep my self-pity to myself.) Instead of wallowing in self-pity all over Twitter like an emo high school kid, I’m doing it here in my own little corner of the interwebs. I’m not above self-pity, I just like to keep it contained.

Presumably, you’ve come here to read my semi-poetic love sick ramblings, updates about my asshole, and/or all-too-infrequent descriptions of hot sex. Surprise… all you get today are a handful of complaints and one evil undertoad.

evil toad with red eyes and horns


composite based on “Cane Toad” (2013) by snarsy. Licensed under Creative Commons CC0 1.0 Universal (CC0 1.0).
Apr 122014
 

Last night I dreamed I pulled an enormous, thick black python out of the sabal palm on the corner of the lot, tugging it down from the branches by its tail.

I should have known something wasn’t right by the way it so easily untangled itself and fell into a loose coil at my feet. I wrestled it, despite the fact it didn’t require wrestling, and pinned it’s head down against the sandy saw grass.

With a machete I do not own, swiftly, I dragged the blade horizontally across it’s body, just behind its jaw.

It severed cleanly. There was no blood.

I looked down at my kill and wondered whether cold blood runs.

Moments later, the body of the snake writhed as if it still had life inside it, and then a hundred smaller snakes slithered from the wound.

 

Apr 102014
 

I don’t have one singular life goal.

If I did, it certainly wouldn’t be to stick my metaphorical dick in the same metaphorical hole over and over again for all eternity.

It’s just not a priority for me.

The *pat pat* condescension that accompanies “you’ll understand when you are older” works both ways, you know. It’s the same *pat pat* condescension I could use to shake my head and feel sorry for your perspective — a perspective shaped by advancing age, decreasing years, and dwindling options.

Perhaps you look back on your life and you’re happy with your decision to put love first because ultimately, love is most important to you. But perhaps you look back and you’re happy with your decision because you weren’t ambitious, or because you fell short of your ambition, or because you’re tired of rat races and sometimes familiar love is easier to settle into than anything else.

Granted, perhaps I can’t see what you see because I don’t have the wisdom or life experiences that come with age (tell me, how many candles must I have to earn the right to prioritize my life the way I choose?).

But perhaps you can’t see what I see because your life experiences have skewed your perception, or limited your options, or crushed your ambition, creativity, and spirit.

I don’t know. You don’t know either.