When I made the decision to journey into this lifestyle, I knew that it wasn’t going to be easy, although I suspected that it would be easier for me than for other novice dominants, just from the fact that I have a very clear of idea of what I want in life and know myself well (or believe it at least).
The hardest thing has been stepping outside of my comfort zone, or what Warren describes as, “the psychological barriers to undertaking such a politically incorrect activity.” It’s ironic; he warns, “…keep in mind that by admitting her desires, [the submissive] could be seen to be rejecting gains that women have slowly and painfully made over the last 20, 50, 100 years”, something I understand completely, but it’s not Loo who’s worried about rejecting these gains.
After all, as much as I hate to admit it, I’ve been programmed by society to a certain degree. No violence against women, females are to be treated as equals, et cetera. And along with this are my own programmed morals and beliefs. Expect nothing from anyone. Punishment does more harm than good. The list goes on in varied and inconsistent ways. What makes it all harder is the fact that breaking out of the bubble must be done out of self-interest. As much as I’d like to keep reminding myself that this is not only what Louise wants, but needs in a relationship, I have to forgo the reinforcing of any such idea. To acknowledge it is to ruin the dynamic between Dom and sub.
Interestingly enough, the only way I’ve been able to get past these personal boundaries has been to not intellectualize them, to act without thinking. To expect a woman to ask for permission to leave my side, or come to bed. To have her sit at my feet instead of next to me. To hit her until the point of tears, but not stop. To know that her body is mine, and not her own.
To live this life for me, and not the both of us.
Know what I hate? No, fucking hate.
I fucking hate it when a girl reduces me, or any guy, for that matter, to a sex. When some PETTY-MINDED FUCK generalizes someone as belonging to the group of “males” because of a few characteristics shared with the stereotype. Or brushes off any traits she sees as unpleasant as simply being the fault of having both an X and a Y chromosome.
What the fuck. I don’t place the blame on ‘being female’ when a girl happens to be late getting ready to go out. Or when a girl ends up in the middle of a geek talk, I don’t condescend to her and say, “You wouldn’t be interested cause you’re a girl”. I understand that girls can be geeky, or prurient, or cerebral, the same way that guys can be interested in ballroom dancing, or chaste, or emotional.
I don’t do guys nights or any shit like that cause I choose not to judge. I don’t automatically assume that a girl wouldn’t understand what happens when the guys are together. I’ve had girls at my LAN parties, I know girls who go to strip clubs. And I choose not to act or do anything differently if my girlfriend isn’t around, cause I have nothing to hide. I don’t want to be fake with either her or my friends.
Not every male is a slave to someone with breasts. Beer commercials are not an accurate representation of the entire male population.
A few years ago, while we were still living together, Pita and I passed by a restaurant called Social that was along the market. We looked in at the elegant, minimal atmosphere, the nicely dressed people, and the intricate dishes that were being served to them. Looking at the menu posted outside, and noting the lack of decimals in the pricing (everything was in flat dollars), it was mutually agreed that going there to dine without a reason to celebrate was out of our budget. Just walking inside was something that we would have to earn, and we made an agreement. For the term, if I could manage all As (anything from an A- to an A+, or a GPA of over 8.0) and if he could win his next competition (for both standard and Latin ballroom dancing) than we would walk in one day and order anything we wanted.
The term came and passed, and in the end I only managed a bunch of measly grades, while he got bronze at the competition. We never spoke of it again.
Until this week. After traveling abroad for more than a year and working in his native country, Pita came back to Canada to settle down. He decided to live the rest of his life in Montreal, but he was able to visit for the weekend. We agreed on lunch at Social, not needing any justification between each other. After all, we graduated, found jobs, started to settle down. We hadn’t seen each other in over a year.
He had the duck, I had the lamb. Both were unbelievably succulent, tender, and came with fresh salads in a light dressing, along with super-thin fries. Even though we weren’t dressed as well as what some would call the “regular” patrons, we were served well and with respect, something can’t be said about all the restaurants I’ve been to. To be honest, I’ve never been given a choice of water (regular, mineral, soda, or sparkling, the man told us). I paid this time, and Pita agreed to treat me when I visit him in Montreal.
The half ounce. Financed by one, shared by many.
I have to say more about DFA 1979’s debut LP. I’m amazed that two young guys from Canada could come up with an album that’s as funky, loud, raw, and developed as this. They aren’t the White Stripes, as some have tragically compared. What’s the difference? DFA 1979 doesn’t have shitty vocals, shitty drums, or shitty songs (although they also don’t have a moderately cute female drummer). THEY DON’T EVEN PLAY THE SAME INSTRUMENTS. A BASS IS NOT THE SAME AS A GUITAR YOU FUCKING IDIOTS. WHAT THE HELL WAS YOUR BASIS OF COMPARISON? THE NUMBER OF MEMBERS IN THE BAND? LET’S JUST COMPARE NIRVANA TO THE BRAD MEHLDAU TRIO CAUSE THEY BOTH HAVE THREE MEMBERS.
Listening to Romantic Rights can make anyone feel like a million bucks just walking down the street. I know I do.