Apr 222014
 

I play pretend — a dress up Domme in too-tall shoes and borrowed attitude. I wear wedges and a black cotton sundress (not stilettos and a corset). It’s a compromise between ‘doing Domme’ (my way) and accommodating my uncoordination.

We both know what I am — I am not a Domme. I am his Domme, and for that, I’m glad. It’s a position I adore, and one I own, but also one that encompasses both my fine points and my flaws (some of which are outside standard deviation for the role).

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I don’t enjoy making decisions about where to go for dinner… ever. I don’t dine out often, I’m unfamiliar with the restaurants in the area, and my palate is unrefined (for anything but delicious words). I have no strong preferences or occasional cravings, and in general, I don’t much care. What I hate is being responsible for bad decisions which result in bad food, uncomfortable surroundings, and strained conversation over poor acoustics and packed tables. J and I typically go back and forth on date nights — neither one of us is particularly strong-headed about where to go or what to do. In general, he prefers that I decide, and I prefer not to.

But for whatever reason, towering in my wedges, with dark red lips and second-hand self-assurance, I felt confident and self-possessed. In a move that’s slightly out of character, my choice was swift and decisive — I decreed we would go to a hot new place recommended by a colleague with excellent aesthetic sense and our progressive ‘city paper.’ Neither the particular choice nor the act of making it were particularly important, but method acting is convincing — it makes the insignificant seem consequential, and sometimes, I enjoy seeming just as much as being.

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Within two minutes of sitting down at the bar as we waited for our table, I found myself fighting the urge to turn around and leave. The overwhelming menu of craft beers, microbrews, and imported lagers, ales, and stouts wasn’t entirely in English, and I wasn’t so much interested in hearing the bartender’s pretentious explanations as I was in ordering something so he would stop. Unfortunately, I learned the establishment doesn’t serve hard liquor (in order to focus on the fine qualities of barley, malts, and hops).

When J’s stout was served in a snifter and my IPA came in a champagne glass, I was pretty sure my restaurant selection was a bad decision. But despite the warning signs that we might be out of place, I remained committed to my decision being decisive. It was only after we were seated that I took a moment to look around and noticed the staggering diversity of well-calculated facial hair configurations. But then it was too late to change my mind.

After the mustache (wearing skinny jeans and a bad attitude) took our order, J and I exchanged similar expressions.

I leaned across the table and whisper-yelled, “This is a hipster place… isn’t it?”

In response, he offered a weak smile that nearly matched my own.

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We grin and bear it, and struggle to make conversation over incongruously loud and apathetic conversations and the odd selection of music that was more intrusive than ambiance.

I ask him about how it’s going with his preparations to move out west — he’s in the midst of finishing up work projects here and starting new ones elsewhere. My question is plainly asked and plainly answered. His response is innocuous, but that doesn’t stop me from feeling as if it’s too upbeat.

I look down, poke at my plate of tapas, and try not to take it personally. His positivity about moving forward with his life does not mean he’s indifferent to moving on. My rational brain knows this, but my emotions are not convinced and cannot be controlled.

With heat rising in my cheeks and stinging tears threatening to overcome their boundaries, I glare at J as best I can in an effort to make us both believe I’m angry instead of heartbroken.

“Back off.” I stop him mid-sentence with as much weight as I can muster, but as tears well in my eyes, I suspect he is unconvinced.

He processes my expression, and offers gently, “I’m sorry.”

He understands. He knows me well enough to recognize my sadness and know that I’m more comfortable if we both pretend that it is anger. He spares me the indignity of having to confirm something we both already know.

We resume poking at our plates and pretending to be interested in our dinner.

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My mind goes a million miles a minute. He has every right to be excited about his future… but it’s a future without me in it. He is looking forward about the former, not the latter, but unfortunately, I can’t easily separate the two.

I can feel my face getting warmer, my eyes swelling slightly, and I’m unable to find distraction. The food isn’t great, conversation is nearly impossible over the increasing volume of other patrons, and there’s nothing to look at but ugly art and odd mustaches, patchy goatees, and dismissive haughty faces.

One rebellious tear breaks free, ignoring my will for its containment. I don’t allow it to survive for fear that it might multiply, and wipe the evidence from my face. Blinking gently and swallowing hard, I get myself in check enough to look up from my plate.

I look up, and look up further, glaring disdainfully at the ceiling as I recognize what’s playing from the speakers overhead — “No Woman, No Cry.” While I do not enjoy the coincidence, I can’t help but appreciate the humor.

My eyes roll independently of my will to move them, and soon after, I feel myself break into a wide grin as the heat in my cheeks subsides. “No Woman, No Cry.” Of course. J looks relieved and grins back. I signal a disinterested waiter to bring me our bill.

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Later on, I will reflect on this evening and what I learned.

I learn that I really, truly do not enjoy selecting restaurants. I learn that hipsters do not understand medium rare and that “in house made” anything doesn’t mean it’s good. I learn not to trust hirsute men to make good kimchi; it’s better left to smooth-skinned Koreans. I learn that I do not enjoy music that bluntly coincides with my emotions,  simultaneously intensifying and diminishing them with their obviousness.

I learn that J knows me better than I give him credit for. He knows me well enough to read me and treat me gently — even if it means playing along with poorly-executed charades — to spare me the embarrassment I’d feel at having lost control of my emotions.

“Everything’s gonna be alright…”

 


thumbnail image: Beer at Frankfurter Haus – Idestein, Germany (2012), by Chris Goldberg. Licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 2.0 Generic (CC BY-NC 2.0)
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.

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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 -

The only place where the smartest and hottest sex bloggers are featured under one roof every month. Whether you’re looking for sex journalism, erotic writing, relationship advice or kinky discussions it’ll be here at Elust. Want to be included in Elust #58? Start with the rules, come back May 1st to submit something and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates!

~ This Month’s Top Three Posts ~

I’ve Got 99 Problems

Vasectomy Blues

I’ve always wanted to call myself queer.

~ Featured Post (Molly’s Picks) ~

Aoyama Yuki and My Very First Times

I don’t know how to be happy

~ Readers Choice from Sexbytes ~

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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.