What being a woman means to me: A Writing Challenge

A friend issued a writing challenge, asking to answer the following three questions. Below is my entry.


(1) What does being a woman mean to you?

I realized right away that the way I wanted to answer this question was to start highlighting the many incongruities with the concept of “womanhood” and what womanhood actually means to me. In other words, it was going to be an essay about what it doesn’t mean to be a woman.

It doesn’t mean I like shopping, or babies, or makeup, or that I have a vagina. Being a woman has nothing to do with my anatomy or my hobbies or my sexuality or my talents.

So I spent a few minutes trying to figure out what it does mean.

I think that being a woman means learning to adapt to a world that insists on making decisions for you. It tries, at first, to make you believe that this is the world you want to live in – because “decisions are difficult, and women are weak, or emotional, or incapable – and as a woman, it is a relief to be given all the answers.”

And when, as a woman, you begin to question that – because, at one point – we begin to question that, you face the many ways that the world continues to manipulate you into staying inside the nice, comfortable box they have designed for you.

I think that being a woman means learning to adapt to being consistently underestimated. Some adapt quietly, some react with defiance – but regardless, it is a fact of life for a woman.

I think that being a woman means absolutely nothing, because “woman” is a socially constructed label.

Being a woman means that I am a person.

And being a person carries far more relevance in my world than being a woman.

(2) What about being a woman do you want or would you impart to your own daughter by the time she reaches adulthood?

Were I to have children, I would want them – regardless of gender – to understand and respect the power of living authentically. With respect to women, I would want them to understand that our society will attempt to erase their individuality while simultaneously selling on all the ways they can be more special. I want them to understand that so they can never fall victim to it.

I also want them to understand that those who hold tightly to the systematic oppression of women are often as much victims of the patriarchy as we are. When we confront these ideas, we are confronting their stability. Instability frightens people. Fear makes people feel attacked. People who feel attacked attack back.

I would want them to understand the difference between forgiveness and understanding. One must strive to understand their oppressors, but to forgive them is a personal choice, and not one I’d likely to make without a sincere apology.

At the same time, I want them to understand the power that forgiveness gives them over their own pain. When they are ready, I want them to embrace that power for themselves.

I want them to understand the importance of respecting nuance, imperfections, and the diversity of perception. I want them to embrace the challenges of facing our own imperfections and learning from them to become more enlightened members of the human race.

I want them to love themselves and to not feel like doing so is a sign of selfishness. I want them to love themselves so well that the people who love them have a template for how it’s done properly.

An I’d want them to know that regardless of who they are, who they love, or how they choose to express that love – they would never lose my respect, unless they willingly harmed people without consent.

(3) What would you impart/share with her around the age of 13-14 as she’s entering her teen years?

There’s a part of this I’ve written before:

By the time my step-daughter wanted to read the Twilight series when she was in her early teens, I’d already read them. I told her she could read them on one condition – we had to have a chat first, and we’d have to have another chat before she got to the final one.

All her friends were reading it so she agreed to the chat.

Here’s the gist of what I told her:

This book makes the bad guy sexy. He wants to hurt her but he loves her. She is the ONLY one that drives him this kind of crazy and because he loves her so much he holds the whole “I want to kill you” instinct back. This is not a healthy relationship. This book will make you want that guy, and it’s okay to fantasize about that guy – but that guy is not the right guy when you start actually dating.

By this point in her life, my step-daughter had not yet given us many clues as to her sexuality. She had admitted she liked boys, but had not denied that she might also have an interest in someone who was not a boy.

And if she had shared with me that she might be into dating someone other than a guy, I’d probably have done a lot more reading with her on what some of the challenges and hardships that are inherent in that. I’ve recently become aware, for example, that there is inadequate-to-zero sex-education for lesbian teenagers leading many to find out much later than necessary about safe sexual practices, and have some confusion over what “losing one’s virginity” even means.

So, yeah. Right around when the hormones are about to hit – my priority would be to help my daughter prepare for them.

A Tale of Two Women

I recently made the acquaintance of a young woman at an introductory rope event. She’d watched the instructor perform an exercise by tying a single column tie around my wrist and then spending the next two minutes wrapping the rope around me without knots. The purpose of the exercise was to allow for more free-form and feeling in the tie, rather than the strict following of a specific pattern. After some encouragement, the young woman agreed to try doing it herself. I was offered up as the bottom for her to work with.

This young woman was what a very high percentage of the population would call “hot.” I couldn’t describe her to you in detail now if I tried, but to say that she had long straight hair, a young, lithe figure, and big soulful eyes. She was a very attractive person.

She could not stop apologizing.

For everything. From the moment she began tying the single column tie on my wrist until the timer went off after 2 minutes it was a constant sea of “I’m sorry. Sorry. Oh. Sorry.” After two or three times of telling her she had nothing to be sorry about I gave up.

I could tell she was really bright. Like, there was plenty going on underneath the remarkably pretty surface, but it was masked so much by insecurity. I asked her why she wanted to learn to tie, thinking if I could understand her motivation, I might be able to adapt my bottoming technique to make it easier for her to achieve her goal.

Her answer was that she just liked to learn things.

Of all the reasons I’ve heard riggers talk about why they tie, that’d previously not been one of them. There are elements of control, connection, creativity, exploration, expression…. but not just “I wanted to learn for the sake of learning.”

It’s not a wrong answer by any means, but I realized that as a bottom, there was nothing more I could do for her. She could as easily have the experience by tying the leg of a dining room chair, and she’d be less likely to continually apologize to it.

This was a little while back now, and over the few weeks that followed that evening, I thought of her a few times. Truth be told, I think of her in terms of “girl” because she so didn’t yet embody what “woman” means to me.

What made me think of her today was a different woman.

Having finally gotten fed up with the jerk-around Home Depot has been giving me with regard to my appliances purchased the week before Thanksgiving and now delayed for delivery TWICE, I decided to show them my cards. I don’t like being one of those customers that threatens to cancel an order unless I mean it…

…so I went to Best Buy. There were two associates working in the appliance department, but one seemed rather newish and the other was handling three different customers at once. Once I stated my business, the newish one asked me if I could wait because it’d have to be be the other one (department manager, as it turns out) to help me.

I’ve already waited over a month with the Home Depot clowns, so I figured I could give Best Buy a little leeway here. When the department manager finally was able to help me, I was really floored, and very pleased, with her level of professionalism and knowledge about the products and procedures on how to price match my order. She knew her way around that Point of Sale system like I know my Doxy in the dark.

I couldn’t tell you how old she is. She mentioned having a granddaughter, but honestly, she looked way too young for that. I’d have pegged her at about my age.

She did not have the most fortunate genetics when it came to physical appearance. She was overweight with quite a bit of dark facial hair, oily skin, and stained teeth.

But this woman had confidence, at least in this environment. She was good at her job – even managed to upsell me on a dishwasher and cooktop while saving me money on the range hood. The whole time, she was answering questions from her colleagues on everything from how to swap the way the door swings open on a washing machine, to how high a pedestal had to be for a dryer, to how to run a price check for a warehouse only item. I began to relax and trust that my needs would be met and my wants would be addressed. She made me feel comfortable, like I was in good, capable hands.

It’s the way I want to feel when I’m being tied.

Bottom line – looks matter for shit when you want to feel safe. Or something like that.

Irreplaceable

I had a dream last night. It involved time travel. There was one of him and he was going through time collecting all of me at different ages and in different timelines. It was like a poly dream where he was still my only one, but he had several of me and he loved them all dearly.

I told him about it as I woke up. “Luck you,” he said. And I replied, “Nah, lucky YOU.”

I mean, he had a half-dozen me’s to keep him busy. But each one of me still had to spend time without him, and that was sad.

I thought back to the dream. There was an old version of me with grey hair who wore frumpy sweaters. He loved her, too.

“Whenever I’m with you…. no, wait. Even when I’m not with you,” I corrected myself, “Since we’ve been together, I sometimes forget that….,” I paused, trying to figure out how to say it right. “I forget that I’m not perfect. Or that I’m not everyone’s ideal. I forget that I’m not thin.”

He smiled. He understood what I was trying to say. Since I’ve been with him, I forget that I’m fat. I forget that the form-fitting dresses aren’t really “sexy” to the rest of the world. I forget to feel insecure about myself. “I see me the way you see me,” I said.

“Well,” he answered, “I am unique in the world. Then again, there could be dozens of others who think like I do that could replace me.”

“No,” I said. “Nobody could ever replace you in my life. And I don’t think anybody could ever replace me in yours, either.”

He shook his head, agreeing with me. “No, that would be impossible,” he said pulling me close.

Poly or not, he loves me for who I am. At any age. What we have is unique in the world, and nobody could ever replace us in each other’s lives. That’s enough for my monogamous heart to feel secure in my relationship.

I think that’s what that dream was telling me, but I only need to catch him staring at me with his big loving eyes to know it when I’m awake, too.

November Dribbles: Perfect Circle

Someone over on FetLife created a November Dribble/Drabble challenge.  A drabble is a story made up of exactly 100 words (title not included in this version of the challenge).  A dribble is exactly half that – a story set in 50 words.

The challenge is to complete either one drabble a day or one dribble every two days (as telling stories in fewer words can be more challenging).

I didn’t catch on to the challenge until November 7th, so in order to catch up, I posted three dribbles in the morning, and a drabble later at night.

Here are the dribbles.  Next post is the drabble.

#NovemberDribbleDrabble


Perfect Circle (Part 1)

It had been a stressful week, but not unexpectedly so. “Will you have the energy to do anything later?” he’d asked. She replied confidently that she would. “I want you to fuck me so hard I forget my name.”

“Oh, I’ll remind you your name, whore.” he replied.


Perfect Circle (Part 2)

They sat in the theatre, exactly 1127 seats, most filled. Comedians traipsed across the stage in measured order. The music began; he ran his warm hand gently up her bare arm. The music, crowd, and stress dropped away. For the first time in weeks, she felt still and silent again.


Perfect Circle (Part 3)

“Please, please, please!” Her cries were muffled by the palm of his hand, else echoing through hotel room walls. He’d pounded her into orgasm after orgasm earlier, but now forced her tortured restraint. As her pleas reached critical mass, he growled, “What’s your name?”

Whore,” she responded breathlessly.

Permission granted.

One Lucky Whore

When I miss him, I ask if I can “see” him and he sends me a selfie.

I was still three days away from seeing him again. He sent me a selfie. He was smiling in it.

“is that smile for me?” I asked him.

“The smile. The photo. The excitement.”

I grinned. “Oh, but I do love pictures of your excitement,” I replied smugly.

“Well, there’s an idea….” he started. “Seems like I should deny you the sight of it for a bit.”

“I’ve been denied a week already!” I threw in a shocked face emoticon for good measure.

“Are you ready for me to be nasty?” he asked.

I had no idea if I was ready. Two weeks ago, he wouldn’t let me kiss him until after I’d fixed dinner, we ate, and I’d washed the dishes, then kissed every inch of his body before he let me touch his lips.

“Yes?” I responded.

“You will not touch, taste, or see my cock until I pull it out of your wet hole and come on your face, my beautiful whore.”

swoon


I got out of the shower around 6:45. Plenty of time, I thought. He usually arrives at my house around 7:30.

“Trying to decide if I should wear makeup for you to ruin” I texted him.

“Heh, sure, do it.”

“Sweet,” I replied. “Whore it is. After I go to the market.”

“I’m here.”

My heart skipped a beat. “Here?” Did he mean he was at my house already, or that he was still at work?

“Your house.”

He was early. Forty five minutes early! I hadn’t cleaned my vibrator, picked up the laundry, brushed my teeth…I hadn’t scooped the litter box! I was still wearing a bathrobe!

He let himself into my house as I was brushing my teeth. He was on his way up the stairs when I stepped out into the corridor outside my bedroom wearing only my bathrobe. “You’re early! I didn’t have time….!” I stammered. He smiled and pulled me in for a kiss.

One kiss led to another, and soon I was naked and leaning back on the bed with my legs spread and his fingers probing my wet cunt.

After an orgasm, he stepped back. “Well…? Go whore yourself up.”

I nodded dreamily and went to the bathroom to put on some makeup. I did it quickly – heavy mascara and eyeliner, light on the rest. Then grabbed this very slutty dress that I’d picked out for the evening. About 20 pounds ago it looked hot. I’d worn it to the dungeon about a year ago….but not since.

But he loves my body and always makes me feel sexy. For him I’ll walk around naked or in a bikini and I still know he wants me.

He’s laying on the bed when I finish. I walk over to him and smile. He gets up and pulls me into a kiss. Then forces me to bend over the bed kicks my feet apart at the ankle.

He fingers me until I come two more times. He pulls me up by the hair and, woozy, I lean against him for support.

“I’m gonna go change so I’m not wearing cargo shorts,” he said.

“Wait..,” I say, looking up, “Where are we going?”

“To the market,” he replied.

I’d forgotten about the market.  “Can I change?” I asked..

“No.” The gleam in his eye….

Fuck.


I’m dressed like a whore in a too-tight, too-short dress, wearing leather knee high boots and no panties at my upscale, suburban neighborhood market. As we’re heading over, he points out what’s on the shopping list…

Cucumbers. Japanese Eggplant. Condoms….

FUCK.


 

I was bent over the foot of the bed, knees on the padded bench. He fingered me roughly. Spanked me a lot. Shoved my face into the mattress, then pulled it back up by my hair.

He walked around to the side of the bed and leaned over to bring his face down to my level.

“You are my whore…” he said, searching my eyes.

I nodded. “Yes, Sir.” I am.  I always am.

“Tonight, I’m going to treat you like one.”

My heart skipped a beat.

True to his word, I never saw his cock. I heard the swoosh of the belt, and was grateful for the long warm-up that made it possible for each strike to land hard, loud, and solid on my ass and thighs. He entered me from behind, reaching around to roughly grab my tits and pinch at my nipples. I lost count of my orgasms. I just remember that he told me to close my eyes and keep them closed before he flipped me over onto my back.

By then I was naked except for the boots. He was fucking me so roughly, and so deeply, that was the first time I’ve ever squirted….and the second.

He pulled out of my cunt and crawled up over my body. “Open your eyes,” he ordered.  Just as I complied, I felt his hot come on my chin and neck, then tasted it, followed by the sensation of his plunging his cock into my hungry whore mouth.

When he was finished, he pulled out and leaned down to kiss me, deeply.  “I love you,” he whispered.

“I love you,” I whispered back.


“Do you like coming on my face?” I asked him over breakfast the next morning. Eggs, bacon, and vegetables.

He paused to think, then answered honestly. “I like knowing you enjoy it. It’s not really my preference…”

I smiled. There was a version of me a long time ago that would have been horrified to hear that a lover of mine had done something for me that he didn’t thoroughly enjoy. It’s different with him.

Or maybe I’m different with him.

I recall my soft whisper while still dazed after our morning fuck before breakfast. “I’m the luckiest whore in the world,” I’d said.

And I am. Because I belong to him.

Can you tell me how to get…

 

Clamps one and two were fastened to each nipple from the top; the chain lifted and inserted into her mouth where it was held between clenched teeth.

Clamps three and four, also each attached to her nipples, but from the bottom.  The chain lay resting against her belly.

He hovered over her.

A third chain was linked to the second on one end.  The chain tugged downward as he securely fastened the fifth clamp to her wet and swollen clit.

They were celebrating five months together.

“Tonight’s debauchery will be brought to you by the number five…,” she’d joked with him earlier.

She recalled his response as she lay open, vulnerable and clamped times five while he pushed his hardened cock inside her hungry cunt.

“And the letter O,” he’d said.

 

 

 

 

 

 

My giddy teenager

I’ve written about “my little” before, but I’d stopped updating my index at that point and I can’t remember what I titled it, so … I dunno, it’s somewhere in that mountain of writing. So is the metaphor of all of these different aspects of my personality being passengers on a “bus” that take their turns at the wheel.

But if I recall the gist of it, it had to do with my “little” not being happy. A friend of mine called her a “Sad Little.” She, (because these different sides of me are like a bunch of different people that make up one phi), ….she (not me) is afraid, has abandonment issues, and feels a constant yearning to be unconditionally loved. She is the manifestation of my fears that the people I care about in my life are going to go away or not want me anymore.

And she’s been dormant for the better part of a year now. She was probably the last bit of me clinging with arms wrapped tightly around the ankle of codependency as it pulled away.

This new bit of me has emerged. He called her the “giddy teenager.” She is the manifestation of the excitement and joy and fearless way that I approach love when I feel completely secure. For those who know me in person and accuse my eyes of “lighting up” when I talk about him or something we’ve done or planned to do…that’s her. That’s the giddy teenage wallflower getting ready for prom with the star of the football team at the end of the 80s rom-com. Yes, in he next scene he’s throwing eggs at her or standing her up or whatever, but not that part. The part where she’s all excited in her new dress and her head is spinning with all the possibilities of what the night will bring.

That part. HER.

I fucking LOVE her.

But, I feel like it’s important to point out that these are all just little bits of me, and no one of these characteristics make up my whole. It’s not that the sad little has now aged into giddy teenager. Sad Little is dormant, but she’s still part of the whole phi, napping in the back of the metaphorical bus. None of us are one-dimensional characters, and we all have parts of us that ebb and flow with the tide of personality.

I know I’ve written about that before too, but whatever. I just think it’s important to remember that you don’t really know anybody here by the words on the screen, nor likely by the first impression they make on you.

Hell, he told me that when we first started spending time together, the giddy teenager caused him concern, but that over time he realized that she never takes over completely. Now, when she pops into the forefront, he smiles. He recognizes and loves her as part of who I am, and knows that I can (and do) send her to the back of the bus when it’s time for one of the serious or mature aspects of my personality to take the wheel.

Giddy teenager does not just become “bratty sorority girl” when responsibilities come knocking. I don’t actually have “bratty sorority girl” on the bus.

Guess she overslept and missed the stop.