I never thought I was one of those white people with privilege.  As a mixed race child born under no predetermined God or any such religious sanctions, as a child raised hearing broken English and a slight Texan drawl as my first language, as someone with no sense of nationalism, patriotism, or race, I didn’t feel like anything but a soul in a female meat suit which, in a world run by mostly male patriarchy, is not very privileged in and of itself.  As an attractive mixed race girl with no affluence I was assigned descriptions better suited for furniture and food like “exotic” or “rare”.  I wasn’t, and am still not, taken very seriously as most of us Hapa’s (asian/white mix) look eternally youthful.  As a teenager in Japan, I was treated like a cartoon character and would get pushed into random family photos made up of short asian people flashing their infamous crooked teeth (which I too would inherit) and holding up their middle and index fingers like happy little “V’s”.  This was not reality and I was not a part of them and I often felt like I should have been paid to be in these photo ops.

However, it wasn’t until I entered college for the first time at the ripe old age of 40 in 2019, with the intention of learning more about our Public Health System while acquiring any kind of certifications that will help redirect my career onto a more meaningful path, that I could see how I have been privileged as a white woman.  I learned how social systemic oppression in redlined zip codes has segregated brown skin and white skin, even amongst the same social class. I learned that white people walk into an establishment and expect something to happen for them whereas brown people do not expect anyone to do anything for them, ever.  I learned that I have exuded these same expectations, and not because I think I am worthy of being waited on like a queen, but because I’m posturing as someone who has money to spend and am terrified to be outed as a broke ass bitch.  So, instead, I flex my whiteness when convenient and act like I have every right to look at the things that would cost me an entire paycheck.

A middle class white woman is really the most overlooked group of people whose influence on society seems to get lost, or has historically been overshadowed by her white male counterpart.  Factor in how attractive a woman is, according to the social standards set by the Kardashians or any other famous person who makes their living off the insecurities of the entire world, and that is how much more or less relevant that woman feels in our society.  It appears that the women fighting the loudest for equality are still women of color, women of the LGBTQ community, women who have been marginalized in more ways than her gender and therefore with less to lose and so much more to gain, while the middle class white woman seems to still be a snug little bug in her safe little rug sort of quietly getting by, maybe feeling sometimes emboldened to support her “sisters” in her pink beanie with kitten ears when it’s time to march down to City Hall, maybe posting awareness videos about healthy smoothies and self care, or otherwise regurgitating the latest buzzwords or hashtags that indicate her ‘wokeness’.  It’s hard not to be judgmental of the privilege to be able to select a stance on these matters, for women of color who have been the most oppressed in our human history have no such choices to just work on herself, hence the fight.

The modern day fight for gender equality in the workforce, in terms of pay and respect, has been on high demand for decades, and now with cameras in phones more injustices can be captured without the shadow of doubt.  However, within these same handheld devices are the pictures that we present to the world of our perfect lives, of our perfect broken lives, of our reborn or reawakened lives, or anything else we choose to present about our lives.  Within these devices lives the ‘You’ you would like to be whom seems to take precedent over the ‘you’ that is, actually.  And to whom do we hold ourselves to?

I think about this person, the white woman flying under the radar of social responsibilities and not swaying from her husbands social and political views for fear of losing her security.  I think about whether she’s afraid to lose her livelihood or afraid to have to successfully create her own.  Who has time to fight for women’s rights and start over when you have a job and kids and a home to tend to?  I think about me as this woman, and how I am also this woman that I have tried to deny.  I never felt white enough or Japanese enough, I’ve never even felt womanly enough so I didn’t accept any responsibility for the paralysis that occurs in women under the construct of male patriarchy.  I thought not identifying with a group of people somehow made me immune to their constructs.  Not feeling wholly part of any demographic I have conveniently picked and chosen the aspects of whiteness that suited me and denied association with all despicable parts of white history.  I realized that’s not a thing, I can’t very well accept any part of white culture without accepting the ugly darkness behind its whiteness.

It really wasn’t until the most recent Women’s Rights Movement that I realized how I have deceived myself in thinking that I don’t rely on my whiteness, or that I am truly independent or don’t lean on men to support me or provide security–after all, he, who is conditioned to take on the pressure and scrutiny of success in this world is just… better at it.

If I believed in shame as something useful, it is in this grey area of existence as a woman that I would admit to feeling some shame.  I confess there is a part of me that doesn’t actually want to be the bold independent woman that needs no man around, that indeed I love being the nurturer and the one to iron out the wrinkles when he brings home a sorted mess to work out, that I rather like being the soft touch to his rough edges.  Half of the time I’m too tired to fight for myself and I’d rather work on loving others.  Can you fight society with love?  In these movements I feel I’m working counterintuitively, trying to be a brave independent soldier on the front lines of civil justice, and yet, I feel further from safety and truth and quite inauthentic in the process.  Can they tell?  Isn’t this awkward social displacement I feel just a drop in the well of discontent that the truly oppressed have been submerged in for generations?  If I have any noble act in this movement, it would be for me to really feel and know this displacement, this uncomfortable swell of uncertainty for where we are with each other as a society; because my brothers and sisters of color, my LGBTQ family, and any persons who have been marginalized by our society has only been allowed this discomfort and are, they themselves, breaking out of it and redistributing it back to the source.  Therefore, I must be uncomfortable, too, at least if I believe that we are in this together.

 

 

It has been a month since I fed the life line of passion that has been fueling and consuming my womanly spirit for over a year.  I can’t tell yet if it is too early to reflect on this, as my heart still hurts from feeling neglected and unloved, and my ego is still purple and yellow from all the ways I have pressed on my wounds to ensure that they are real, and my lust still yearns, from the deepest curves and hollows of my woman, to be filled by his man knowing full well I’d instantly forgive him if he were to present himself in this very moment.  Damn him.

So, perhaps it is still too soon to tell if I should make any conclusion of this mini voyage I just returned from, so fresh off the Love Boat.  And yet, it is with urgency that I write this so I don’t forget any details of the spontaneous ways we would entertain each other (or truth be told, that I entertained him), or even the long periods of time I would sleep next to my phone patiently waiting for it to light up with just one wave from him…my spirit animal, keeper of my woman, my man to my “wo”, HE who will open me up and free me…or just text “Hi”, anything.

He appeared out of the blue like magic, direct messaging me on one of the few social media outlets I express myself on.  Appropriately, I bestowed to him the endearment “Magic Man” or “Magic” of which I will continue to refer to him as.  Originally, Magic inquired to work together on a visual art project where I would be his muse.  Feeling an immediate and curious energy in his every word, I quickly Google searched his name, as most people do these days, to see what sort of work he did unaware of who he was and his current success.  It turns out Magic Man is quite esteemed in his art and craft and not slowing down any time soon.  The opportunity to create something with his level of talent and recognition was an exciting honor.

It took but a heart beat to feel our mutual attraction, and soon I was divulging all of my life motivations, super grand ideas, endless optimism towards humanity, and above all, my open beliefs about sexuality, women, and men.  Magic’s particular project that he invited me to muse in was meant to present a strong sexual woman, sort of shameless and unafraid of it.  I felt like an eager student in class, hand erected high above others “Me me me, I’ll do it!  Yes indeed I am all of those things, you’ll see.”  That he called to me at my ripened age of 37 (at the time) inspired me to dig into my woman, pull her out of me and show him everything.  And I did.  I did for over a year.

What the fuck does that mean, “I showed him everything?”  Like…everything?  Basically, I did show him everything I could think to show him.

“So what?  Like peed and poo’d on camera?” Poo, gross, never!  Not our thing.   But pee for each other we did often indeed. That was one of the few visual teasers I received back from him.  Magic liquid gold. Yum, I drank it up….over the phone, of course.

It can NOT be forgotten for a moment that 99.99% of this entire years interaction was done on my IPhone.  My woman lived in the pocket of his pants.  Every time he told me to get naked I stopped what I was doing and found an opportune place within seconds of his request to drop trou’, bend over and spread, pull up and off, whatever needed to be done to show him all of my lady bits.  It came easily and naturally for me to reveal myself to him.  I grew in love with the playful, adventurous person I felt when fueled by Magic.  Our connection didn’t stop with our sexual friskiness.  We spoke excitedly about our ideas on art and community, and more so, the similar ways we process life, process art, process love, and respect the process.  It was THAT that I desired to express myself to him, do something different with a man, feel him in a different sort of way by sharing all of my process in the rawest most organic way that I could muster.  I knew already living in different cities only close by air that I would never be able to want him around all of the time, would never think to imagine being in his every day existence which I remarkably did not do in the time that I spent pining for him.

I imagined that we were that rare connection when energy meets it’s true match and magic is created.  That we were made up of moments filled with brilliant truths and beauty… on my phone, on this fucking phone that illuminated everything I wanted to believe in wholeheartedly.  My phone became him, this precious thing I would love and feed and feed and feed, so that he, it, would grow to love me.

Did it?  Did it love me, did Magic love me?  Sometimes.  Sometimes just when the static silence pierced like micro needles injecting self-doubt and hopelessness into my spirit, a single line from Magic Man would appear like words from God, and it would part the clouds and shed warm light into my dark places.  I would be lifted to the point of flight, and with this electricity between us I was compelled to be creative, produce any sort of random thing every day to have something to show for this precious space we shared.  My process became my everything and it was all I could do to keep myself from throwing it all at his feet.

My shares were like dares to myself.  How far am I willing to go?  Is there a limit to which I will reveal myself?  Aware of  his exposure to the rich and famous a

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nd the wealth of talent he has at his finger tips, I dared to be as natural and real as I could, not hiding my imperfections or always submitting perfectly filtered images of myself.  I vowed to be authentic so that some day when we meet I would be exactly as I presented myself, but better.

Looking back, Magic shared very little with me.  For every 50 images or videos I sent to him, I received one.  I never expect anyone to be as wordy as I am, but in truth, I did most of the talking.  It was through his validations of my heart and mind that I felt I knew him.   He told me he loved my mind and how I think, that I am the closest he has found to how he thinks.  *melt*  With those words alone I was in his clutches.  That would remain to be the best thing any man has ever told me. He would deliver accolades that would confirm our likeness but not really tell me much about him.  In reality, my birds eye view was not much different than any other Instagram follower of his.  I was able to rationalize this obvious fact even when lengths of silence would drive me down a rabbit hole of Google searching more about his life exposing the family he is committed to and the history of his success.  I would find myself in moral conflict over whether to continue interaction with him knowing that I am his phone mistress, simultaneously wondering what that means about me.  *cringe

There were rounds of moralizing over the fact that I was a secret in his life (or a magical little treasure in some rationalizing), whereas he was not a secret in my life.  Part of me felt convinced that as long as I am being true to myself on my end, I shouldn’t feel morally wrong, that what is happening on his end is none of my business.  I was well into an open-end[ing] marriage, self discovery, my art, and learning to have a healthy mom-self balance when Magic Man sniffed me out.  There’s a shitty feeling that comes with being someone’s phone mistress (basically a secret lover), and it’s simply that I felt disposable.  My ex partner pointed out once after a night where I confessed my love for Magic Man and all the wonderful, glorious ways I have been exploring and feeling, that while he genuinely felt happy for me I’m just “extra”, not a factor in Magic’s life.  I beat myself up a bit about the fact that I knew I could be knocked out by Magic’s silence at any given moment, that I was setting myself up to be the loser in this.  But still, this space had what I wanted…to be anything.

The .01% of time that was not spent on my IPhone with Magic was the one hour that I spent with him when I visited his studio.  I bought a plane ticket and waited around all day in a city I didn’t know, wandering in and out of shops enjoying that no one knew me, feeling a little mischievous and hungry for what I had waiting for me.  I arrived mid morning with plenty of time to enjoy watching a man search for treasures in the sand at the beach with the use of a handy metal detector. I thought about the treasure I was about to discover.

Aside from worrying about my phone staying charged I felt free and invigorated there.  At last, in the late afternoon, Magic invited me to visit his studio where he warned I would be met by his crew.  While I was slightly disappointed that I wouldn’t be able to reach out and feel his body with wild abandon, I was content in knowing I would be breathing in his air.

And then he was there approaching me from the other side of a gate.  He never said my name.  In fact, I’ve never heard Magic say, text, or mutter my name the entire time I’ve known him.  In this moment, that didn’t matter at all.  His eyes glowed behind all the whiskers on his face. Even though he held an air of bold confidence there was a subtle shyness in those eyes that made me want to kiss the lids of them (and then lick them).  The playful woman in me was certainly ignited by the vibration in our air.  With people around I spent much of my time trying not to touch him.  I wasn’t able to make the eye contact I so desired for fear of being so obviously smitten by him around his creative team.  Instead, I watched Magic’s hands, their every gesture, how they lifted small objects, how they fingered different surfaces, how they sent waves of electricity through every vein in my back when his hand softly guided me through his space.  His beard smelled like my best girlfriend and wood fire, which made me feel warm immediately.  Had I known this would be the first and possibly last time I’d see him, I would have climbed him like a tree and then grabbed that beard by it’s thickest tuft, and I’d have slapped his face hard and kissed and nibbled through his whiskers, and then I’d leave a bite on his chin identical to the one he he took out of my heart.

I don’t want to go on to do the thing of finding ways to hate my Magic Man.  I don’t want to start peeling open every little interaction and find myself crying mad and embarrassed at myself for sharing these moments with him.  I wanted to do it.  I wanted to tell my phone lover everything.  I wanted to tell him stories and make him laugh.  I wanted to explore the kind of natural woman I am and show her to him.  I shared with him a week I spent in my own menstrual flow, refraining from all modern day feminine care products just to feel my bleed.  And I then took self portraits of my bloody kitten covered in wild flowers, and captured the tender moment on video when I sat up after my pussy had filled with her own blood and poured out into a puddle onto my living room floor.  And when I sent that to him with abandon I wondered if that was too far?  And it never was.  So I kept digging and digging deep into my woman, coaxing her to expose all her desires, all her fears, all her urges with Magic as the reason to come out.  But I see I did it for me, I did it all for me.  He gave me nothing but I gave myself my woman.  Magic.

My Morning Thoughts:

I’m not a religious person, and I understand why people are. I don’t think that people are wrong for having or believing in a God/religion. The power of belief is beautiful and real, we all need to believe in something. So this is just my belief.
While binging on a slew of documentaries about sexuality, strife, rags to success, our lovely planet….I thought of something. In my viewings, often there was a call to God for strength, comfort, and guidance. Or a feeling of failure or confusion about God when tragedy occurred.
In the case of children, it is told to them by their parents and trusted adults to pray to God in times of need to ask for his love, strength, and forgiveness.
Having been raised in a Godless (not loveless) household, and now raising my own children this way, it seems to me that what we ask our children to ask of God they should feel safe to ask in us as guardians of their youth. Religion seems to create complacent parenting.
I realize how offensive that sounds and how defensive a religious person might become reading this, it sounds accusing and judgmental. But by complacent, I don’t mean that religious parents don’t do everything they believe to be good for their children, that they don’t diligently involve them in the teachings of their Lord instilling the community of their church and neighbors, that they don’t create a foundation on which they feel their children will grow into good people.
What I mean is religion creates an emotional complacency, that you don’t have to personally deal with another’s pain, fears, or innate sexual nature. That these are God’s children so He will make it right so long as you ask Him and do right by Him. A child doesn’t have years of life experience to have the faith in something so fantastical, no more than the tooth fairy or Santa Claus. They are doing what their parents want. Children know what is physically there, or whose existence is still engrained in our walk of life that it is obvious that something was once there, but no longer, like the Wooly mammoth.
But if every time your child is afraid, or has been emotionally or physically harmed, or has lied or stolen, or has experienced an erection and can’t stop exploring that, or is drawn to the same sex, or falls into addiction, or is working their ass off toward their dreams, why do we send them straight to God? Why don’t we give them the love, the support, the guidance that we have in ourselves as parents and grownups who have lived a life so far and have their experience to share?
The separation of oneself from their emotions creates shame, fear to do wrong and that someone will find out, and that everyone and God will be angry. Shame is not a natural feeling, shame is manmade, created to control our behavior and emotion. It is a debilitating tactic to keep us from exploring beyond. Animals do not feel shame, they do not worry that all the other animals will be angry at them for the things they have done.
Many religions are fear and shamed based, which means to me, that God is manmade.
The spirit of anything is forever, and those to me are the angels that keep us human, and they are forever passing their knowledge onto us the more we live. #freetobelievewhatyouwill

A friend of mine recently told me that “love is a priviledge.”  Granted, this was in the context of how distracted Americans are by the antics of our Presidential debates, meanwhile there are more impending, big picture issues like WWIII …

This statement has been festering in me since, and I want to dig into it a bit.

First of all, I couldn’t disagree with my friend more.  My initial response to this statement was to say that not everybody can focus on the possibility of WWIII, and that by not doing so one hasn’t chosen ignorance or bliss, but rather nurture and hope.  Particularly mothers and fathers have to maintain a minimum level of hope at all times when raising our young, and when you have something so vast and out of your control like war in your forethoughts, that hope can quickly diminish.

But to me, this is less about social issues and politics, but more about our disregard and undervalue of love.  How dare you call it a priviledge.  I believe to the core of my existence that love is innate, that everybody possesses this from the start.  Every living being has a purpose, a contribution to the existence of this earth.  Even the mosquito, who could disappear forever and will have no real impact on the earth…EXCEPT, the rainforest would have been long gone by now.  Because of the mosquito, humans have not been able to survive the rainforest long enough to destroy it.

I’d like to believe that humans are more exceptional than the mosquito, though we’ve managed to spread disease and take out entire populations just like they have.  But what do humans do that no other living being does?  We ingenue fantastical ways to exist with each other, and be on top of the food chain.  Why?  Why do we do all of this?  Because we want to go to war?  Because we are so controlling as a predator of this earth that we would be willing to take out entire regions through nuclear warfare to prove our power?  This is our purpose as humans?

No.  Power is Loves ugly head reared and on full display.  It is the disllusionment of what our purpose is about.  The crux of a fight is love.  Love of this beautiful land, love of your spiritual beliefs, love of your family, love of your lover; LOVE is why we fight.  Money doesn’t have love but it has become the motivational force behind all of our fighting, the thing that jades humans of our purpose.

Love is not our priviledge, it is our purpose.

I got asked this question and I had a fun time dissecting it.

What makes a man manly? (And the guise of the Lumber Sexual, or is it a woman’s dreamt up, make believe ideal?)

Well, I could certainly tell you what makes a man not manly, but I’d like to keep this on the up and up, so I will stay focused on the actual question. What is manly?

I suppose we would need to first recognize a Lumber Sexual. Most people, having now just read the words “Lumber Sexual,” have an image in their head of who this person is. When I think of Lumber Sexual, and indeed, there is an immediate attraction to this aesthetic though not limited to men as there are plenty of lesbian Lumber Sexual’s out there, too, I think of a natural man, a man with true grit and just the right amount of fucks to give. A man that looks good in everything because the man wears the clothes, the clothes don’t wear the man! That Lumber Man. The general head-to-toe look of a Lumber Sexual consists of a minimum of these 5 key components:

1. The Beard. You cannot be Lumber Sexual if you cannot grow a beard, the exception only being if you’re a lesbian. In San Francisco, it is probable that in any trendy coffee shop serving $5 drip coffee, you will hear a beard-centric conversation pertaining to the amount of time it took to grow that beard. Very, very interesting… The juvenile in me thinks of Roald Dahl’s crude depiction of the beard.

“…a hairy jungle around his mouth, he was always able to find a tasty morsel here and there to nibble on.”

Alas, I am a dirty girl and a huge fan of them. I find The Great Beard incredibly manly. I love to sink my fingers into a man’s beard and pull him toward me for a kiss. Every man has a signature musk in his whiskers. Some are beautiful, filled with so many colors and patterns. For me, beards turn me feral and growly. They make me more sexual and I want to rub my most womanly scents into them. I worship the beard.

Sooooo, Fella’s, when you don the Great Beard and you don’t make me feel like a cat in heat, it’s such a bummer. Those are the moments when I feel bamboozled, when I realize that I was attracted to an aesthetic that had nothing to do with who the person is, and that is what makes it a disappointment.

2. The Hair. Honestly, it’s a 90’s throw back with more grease and pomade. Long on top with some sort of product worked into it, clipped down short on the sides, and that one pendulum of hair that, not by accident, swings between his eyebrows. It’s like a 1950’s, sexier version of Zack Morris from Saved By The Bell.

I can take it or leave it. I can pull your hair or I can lick and bite your head, doesn’t matter to me at all. If a man has kind eyes that can hold my gaze and tell a thousand playful thoughts without saying a word, that is manly.

3. The Flannel. This is not to be confused with the type of flannel that Kurt Cobain wore, loose and thrifted, and covered in cigarette holes and stale nicotine. These flannels are crafted and made of fine wool. They can be worn under a 3 piece suit, and probably have. These flannels have never touched a grain of sawdust, let alone covered the back of a man who has cut down a tree. These are sensible shirts to keep men warm. They are no longer outback to me, they are universal, practical, classic tartan that have no association with nature.

What I love to see is the broad curve of a man’s shoulders under his shirt. That beautiful shape of a man who still holds himself up. But this is a man who looks best in a white t-shirt, or nothing at all. This is a man who still lifts me up when he gives me a hug because he likes the weight of my entire body on him, which sends a deeper message that he’s strong enough to hold the weight of my world and can keep me safe, at least for 5 seconds. It’s not the flannel that keeps this man warm, it is the abundance of love he allows in.

4. The Denim. A Lumber Sexual wears quality materials, less is more which is a sign of maturity, refinement, and financial stability. Often this denim is $400 Japanese selvage, zero stretch, cuffed about 1.5”-2″ above the boot exposing an intentionally colorful sock beneath. If this Lumber Sexual is a true denim connoisseur, then he never washes them. Instead he spot cleans and freezes them to kill any bacteria and scent, then hangs them outside to freshen up, so to preserve the physical idiosyncrasies of the man inside them; the wallet imprint, the shift bulge, the whiskering in all the creases, and the faded highlights of his leg muscles.

I absolutely approve these jeans for men. This can only be done with a well made pair of quality denim. I rather love the idea that no man could wear another man’s pants. Women are generally softer, so our fade marks don’t have the same definition that men have. Women need the stretch in denim to keep their squishy parts from looking flattened. I secretly want denim that I can wear almost every day without washing, that bear my womanly essence; but sadly that essence can also be known as the all too infamous “crotch rot” (which is an embarrassing combination consisting of dried up pussy juice and possible menstrual tracks…for those that didn’t know, now you do…sorry.) So, I am envious of the relationship men have with their denim, just as I am of their ability to write their name in the snow.

5. The Boots. The boots are typically qualified the same way the flannel and denim are; something of the hand made variety, sewn together with industrial thread, soft hide, and stacked wood. They are usually about ankle high and worn with colorful or printed socks. They’re meant to last and be resoled again and again, his foot so embedded in the shoe that you could cast a mold of his foot out of it.

I, myself, love boots. As a woman, one shoe does not cover the spectrum of moods I present myself in. I could never be satisfied with one image. But, if you are going to commit to a look, then I think, at the very least, own it. I can respect anyone that breaks in a boot, because they can’t just be any boot, they have to be “the one”. You get a gut feeling when you know you’ve found the perfect pair, and there is always a grievance period when it is truly time to replace them. You don’t have to be Lumber Sexual to have this kind of relationship with your shoe, this exists with lots of people and lots of types of shoes; the same can be said for a trusty pair of Chuck Taylor’s or Vans Half Cabs.
But a lovely pair of leather boots age and wrinkle with the man, they can reveal a thousand miles of life, they are an extension of the walk he walks. The boots I am attracted to are not the steadfast boots that stayed the course, creating a seamless and smoothed out route leading to clear destinations and boundaries. And mind you, there is nothing wrong with this pair of boots, they are by no means less honorable, but I would grow tired of the trench they have created. Okay, so what does that mean? Does a man with boots covered in nicks and dings in the leather, and soles caked in mud and grease really live a more ruthless and carefree life? Do these boots really will him to step into any situation and toe the line no matter what obstacles are put before him? Probably not.

And if I haven’t confused you with so many metaphors, then you might find yourself wondering how many other expectations we have placed on someone just by the trend they got onboard with, or the ideas we’ve created around that image. Just the same that a man dressed as a lumberjack should be strong and rugged, self-assured without a need for validation, to smell of eucalyptus and cedar (and maybe a touch of pipe smoke), and to embody a calm and warm spirit that puts my restlessness at ease; it can be equally assumed, at this rate, that a woman dressed with done up hair, flawless make-up, a body hugging dress, and stiletto heels is an excellent lover, body confident, witty, flirty, and sexually diverse.

Sometimes liking what you see isn’t really seeing what you like. As I grow older, I find myself more deeply attracted to traits that cannot be bought. Traits like humility, a sense of humor, patience, an open mind, and kindness. If you possess these in addition to a rugged aesthetic, then you are winning, otherwise, you’re just another trend representative with some explaining to do.

You’re reading this because you want to know, and you might even feel a tickle deep inside.  And if you do, for the love of Goddess, enjoy it!  Whether it’s the cast of stigma and shame that it has been burdened with, or the weakness in our understanding of it, “Pussy” is such a great thing of nature, that it deserves so much more recognition for its strength.  I am pussy, and pussy is me.  My need to be one with my pussy is rich, and I intend to make it all the wiser.

If I leave my understanding of pussy to science, I feel detached in every aspect.  When I look at pussy in the perspective of long, unpronounceable Latin words and colorful, anatomical charts, my pussy seems without a soul.  Not to say there is no room for scientific explanation, believe me, my loins sometimes behave in a way that can only be biological.  But even when I leave my orgasms to electric or lithium operated tools and rubber, I am distracted by the barriers that block my human need for touch and turn me into a gyrating robot instead.

I speak a lot about men and the variety of ways I engage with them, but lately, it is with women that I feel the strongest connection and appreciation. This is new to me having felt guarded most of my life towards women.  As a girl I was conditioned by society to feel threatened by other girls; hundreds of deep-rooted years of learning to be more desirable, so to marry and secure a place in this world.  And it continues today, as pop culture often pits women against each other in an attempt to sell products that make us believe that one is better than the next. We can easily forget our human nature, that we work best as a community, offering our bosom when one is too ill, nurturing the belly when one is too weak, stroking the skin when one is longing for affection.  How did we ever allow ourselves to get to the place where we would secretly wish for another’s failure for personal gain?  This, to me, is the departure of our species as women, when we no longer nurture and we stand against each other with our arms across our breasts.

For me personally, I learned to form more meaningful relationships with women through motherhood, art, and now kink.  When I first became a mother I didn’t have women that I leaned on.  My own mother was not raised by her mother and didn’t seem to embrace mothering herself.  I had no one to tell me that they also didn’t know what the fuck they’re doing, that their relationship with their partner is also shifting and changing, that they also have needs and no longer know if they’ll ever tend to them.  I searched out the kind of woman who will bring out my best self, and who let me be needed so that I can help her, too.  These women are my sisters, they are an extension of the woman who I strive to be, their infinite energy helps me to see and touch the world in places I’ve never been.  As a dominatrix working out of a cooperative playhouse, I have a community of women with like interests.  For the fact that we are generally physically vulnerable; no clothing to stereotype the other, no preconceived notions as to what we’re all doing there, no need to compete for attention or affection, we can be our truest selves.  When women are together in an unguarded and supportive unity, I can see why the man has historically wanted to protect the woman and keep her safe, instinctively throwing himself against any imposing forces.  It is not because women are weaker, or couldn’t hold their own when threatened, it is because their sense of nurture and communal strength is so strong and deep, that we could not have survived without it.

Still, when our pussy becomes the object that defines who loves us the most, and who we love the most, the pussy’s instincts become inhibited and confused about how to feel.   And why is this?  Because the pussy is where the sex happens, and when burdened with devotion, it becomes the cave in which we hide our love from each other, it no longer is the center in which we reach ecstasy and let our animal spirit out.

When the men went off to hunt, and the women stayed together with the children, surely you do not believe that a woman never answered the call of her own desire.  Even today, when women spend regular time with each other, their menstrual cycles sync up, they naturally adapt to each other’s ebb and flow; which means that it wouldn’t be a stretch to assume that they also got horny together.  And what do women do when they are in need?  They help, they lend a very helpful and loving hand indeed.  It isn’t about being bi, or gay, or in a relationship, or even emotionally responsible for each other, it’s simply about fulfilling a need.  Women are generous by nature.  The women I have surrounded myself with are so hungry for life, yet so willing to be devoured, I am humbled regularly by what some will sacrifice to keep the peace.

Having spent so much more time with women in a sexual environment, I have learned that some of my own hang-ups are quite normal, and needn’t be a hang up at all.  I revealed to my sisters that it is much easier for me to orgasm with, or in front of, someone that I don’t have feelings for, that I’m not even necessarily physically attracted to.  In some instances, the more appalling or gross the man is, the more crude and obscene I can be in my own orgasm, thus reaching it easily and rather quickly, compared to my usual 20-30 minutes or never.  It seems that when I have deeper emotions for someone, that it muddies the freedom I have to let go, that there is so much more at stake, that I end up caring more about their pleasure than my own.  Almost every woman that I’ve told this to has quickly responded, “Oh I’m that way.”  When I told this to an ex partner of mine, he said, “I hope you figure that out, what a shame.”  Which revealed a fundamental difference in how we consider sex, intimacy, and our understanding of how the pussy works.  To him, it is a shame that I have a harder time sharing or reaching ecstasy with someone I love, perhaps like withholding, or some kind of faulty disconnect that is tragically deep-rooted.  That the word “shame” was used at all to describe what I felt to be an enlightenment, says a lot about the mind-fuckery we create in our heads around sex and love.  The ability to produce an orgasm, as a means to express the depth of our intimacy, is an immediate form of pressure, which makes it impossible to let go for the “Big O.”   Not only that, you are left with a trail of self-doubt that runs through both participants.  The non-producer feels they have let the other down, or has to prove in other ways that they love and enjoy them, while the other feels ineffective and inadequate.   And not to say that my ex meant it that way, more so, I’m sure he meant that it would be a next-level connection if you can orgasm with someone you are deeply in love with.  I think that sounds lovely, too, but I don’t feel ashamed of the type of orgasm I reach, or that I have loved many people without the ability to have an orgasm with them.  I am learning to enjoy my orgasm without pressure, that it doesn’t have to be racked with so much fucking romance.  The most romantic feeling I have ever felt is the feeling of being understood.  Which is probably why I’m feeling so lovey towards my lady friends.

What has felt like a greater shame, are the friendships I have lost when sex was taken out of our dynamic.  In general, I think women want to have some sort of friendship with their lovers, at least I do.  I have bedded men that, once sex was introduced, became attached in a way that we did not agree on.  And I believe their attachment transpired because of my natural instinct to want to nurture and tend to them; feeding their bellies, their minds, and their libido.
While I haven’t figured out how to balance love, and sex, and exploration with men, I am deeply comforted by the fact that what I share with my lovely women will not be possessed, but rather shared like a recipe for love and affection.

For those of you who are squeamish about kink, or are uncertain if you really want to hear my stories, I advise you to go no further. However, if your curiosity will open you to a world of people and their “quirks”, maybe even help you get in touch with your own, please embrace the weird I am about to share. The single most important take-away I have gained from becoming a Dominatrix is, from day one, I judge people about 90% less than I did before I did this type of work (which I consider an alternative therapy). I truly feel honored to be someone that people are comfortable to let go some of their most secret desires, their most deep-rooted shame, or just their need to relent and be free of pressure.

For some odd reason I don’t feel like starting at the beginning with this development in my life. It just doesn’t feel organic enough to go back and reflect on it sequentially. Basically, my journey this past year has lead me to a life of doing P/T random jobs, and P/T Dominatrix work. I won’t lie, I struggle with the Dominatrix title a bit; not just for the scared, glassed over eyes that I receive the moment someone registers the word “dominatrix” after I tell them what I do, but also because I simply do not like titles at all. I never identified myself as anything until I became a mother. I was not the girl who became part of a group that was called anything (i.e. jocks, preps, nerds, even artists). School was agonizing for me, I was so uncomfortable and spent most of my time trying not to show it. That being said, I am open to all kinds of people, especially if you’re quirky.

My first story in my “Living in Domnation” series is going to be about Bernie. The thing about Bernie is that all the women, dominant and submissive, who have seen him have talked about his session. Bernie is OLD, as in 90 years old, not even kidding. He smells of pungent musk and rancid lunchmeat, and he has grabby hands that, half of the time, look petrified in the grabbing position.

A session with Bernie basically consists of an hour of playfully taming him. Like when you have a puppy that keeps jumping up and you have to kindly, but firmly, push the dog down and wag your finger, “oh you….” His profile is covered in warning notes made by all the Mistresses, and believe me he has seen us all.

“He likes his n/t (nipple torture) but watch out they drip!”

“CBT (cock and ball torture) but they’re soaking wet, MUST WEAR GLOVES the whole session!”,

“He grabs and claws at you, set boundaries and punish immediately!”

I admit, I was curious, don’t ask me why.

So yes, I agreed to meet the old fart. I guess I had to know what it was like to beat up, a little, on a 90 year old man. When I met him in the Welcome Room of the CoOp that I work out of, indeed I could see he was that of history. The skin of someone that old is so unique to age; the way a newborn baby fresh from the womb has a purple, embryonic tone to it, so does a very old person, no matter what your origin is. And truly his smell left much to be desired. I adjusted my breathing to breathe through my mouth and out my nose so I did not have to taste what I was smelling. When he first looked up at me, his bottom eye lids drooped just enough to flash their veiny, red insides, and his bottom lip also drooped just enough to reveal the tops of his purple gums below his thick stained bottom teeth, which solved a mystery that I have wondered about all of my life regarding old people and their teeth. Up until that moment I had always wondered why old people’s teeth seemed so thick and rounded, and then I realized that they are the stumps of what is left of the tooth, and that the gums have receded down. Isn’t that something to look forward to? Thank goodness that mystery is now solved.

Bernie says, “Ahh, you’re cute”, and proceeded to refer to me as such the entire session. It’s not the most powerful endearment, if you know what I mean? I lead him to the one first floor room meant to bring life to sissy or mommy type scenes, which boasts a metal twin sized, canopy bed, a vanity, and a mirrored wall cabinet equipped with “soft impact” tools and a variety of clamping and clipping devices. Bernie is probably about 5’11”, but I bet he was about 6’1” when he was in his prime. When he drops his trousers, he reveals thin legs, each with a bit of saggy inner thigh that resembles freshly piled whipping cream. He’s shaped like a lollipop with two sticks. When I start my sessions with someone for the first time, I like to take time to get to know their bodies; run my fingers over every inch, find their tickle spots, slap them hard suddenly to test out their threshold in a playful way, remind them when they complain of how hard it was that they just survived the pain just fine. But with Bernie I was conflicted and uncomfortable to go further with my natural way. His skin was covered in odd greyish patches of dry skin. None of it was soft. I felt by running my fingers across it, it would cause bits of skin to fall off. (This is what they meant by “gloves the whole session”), it seemed so humiliating to put gloves on when I am not touching anywhere near genitalia. Still, I understood the need as well. I decided to leave my sheer stockings on, and to use my legs as much as possible. I approached him in a burlesque sort of way, since he loves to see all the women, which to me meant he enjoyed the show or performance of us. While I was hanging from the bed and batting his grabby hands away and kicking them before he could touch me, I looked at his sweet, goofy old face watching me twirl above him, then slink over him from one side of the bed to the other, poking my head up the side of the bed like a kitten ready to pounce, and all I could think to myself was, “I might be the last woman that he plays with…I could be the last woman he ever sees!” This man is a veteran of motherfucking Word War II! Can you even wrap your mind around that? A thousand years ago, or rather 70 years ago in 1945, he fought in a war and came home, and some young woman in her 20’s probably climbed all over him then, too.

I became acutely aware of how much I wanted to be the most beautiful, sensual, playful woman he ever did see. I romanticized about how I would dance in and out of his final thoughts as he falls into an eternal slumber that night, this old kinky soldier who discovered his kink in the 50’s. What a time young Bernie must have had.

Bernie broke my imagination, bringing me back to the reality of the red wine colored carpet and the dated gold trimmed vanity, by stating he wanted to stand with his back against the wall to “finish up the session.”

“Okay….sure, of course.”

What came next I could have never in my perviest, wildest dreams imagined. With his back to the wall, like a crude question mark up against a straight line, and his legs in a permanent saddled, urban cowboy position, he reaches down, cradles his old cock with both stiff hands, as if lifting a fallen baby bird, then vigorously, violently starts to make his hands go back and forth in opposite directions, as if to warm and save the dying bird. I think during this particular moment I embodied no actual dominant role, nor did I pretend to find what he was doing sexy in any way. I just leaned my back against the metal post of the bed and watched in amazement as he gave his cock an “Indian Burn”. From the grunt and distorted face that followed, I assumed that he must have orgasmed, though nothing came out of his cock, save the constant drippiness that existed the whole session, which was exacerbated by my following him around putting a towel underneath his feet, again, like he was a puppy about to wet the carpet.

To a lot of people this doesn’t sound fun, and I will admit, it is by far not my favorite scene. But, he’s a human that will die living, and I support that.

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