wolfsgirl in Wonderland - why Oh why

[wolfsgirl]

Here, I am going ramble unconscionably on about a subject to the fore of my mind in past weeks. It’s a hydra of a topic with many heads; dealing with one head only causes more to sprout up, and so rambling is my only way of addressing it with any clarity or cohesion at all.

I think at the basis of it, the body of the beast, is the issue of trust. But its various heads are confusing and poisonous, so I’ll here look the first in the eye and speak my mind to it, and see what happens. 

I am a submissive woman. This would come as a great shock to many who’ve been at the club-end of my temper or scorn, or who have witnessed my strength through hardships and disasters, or simply the daily way in which I live and breathe, which radiates strength and self-assurance and nothing of submission. But I am a submissive woman. There is no desire greater in my heart than to find my Master, and be Mastered; to be owned, as one owns a very fine horse or a cherished and rare artefact, and to be cared for with the sort of infinite care such a treasure deserves.

But do you think I can find one? (This must not, by any means, be taken as an appeal or advertisement, and the proof of that will soon become clear. All the same, I must give a little space to my lament: what good is a treasure, or a fine horse, in the hands of a brute who would crush them or deface them, or leave them alone to starve and gather dust? ) Even now, in the back of my mind, a little voice is mocking me:

You are not, in any way, either as fine as a horse, or as precious as a jewel.

It’s probably right.

But you know – fuck that. I want to feel treasured. I want to feel fine, and loved and treasured, and all the other seven dwarves of vanity. I want it, because I am a woman, and that is what I want.

But do think I can find him? All my adult life, I have attracted strong men, and not a few weak ones. I think the weak ones are drawn to my mirror-image, the dominant reflection which my true self shows to the world outside. Weak men make fine friends, occasionally fine lovers. But there’s always something missing, something lacking, and I know they can feel it, and because I am not truly dominant that feeling inevitably turns to resentment and then they start to squash whatever it was they liked about me in the first place, as if this will bend me into the perfect dolly mistress they thought they had. Bzzzt. Wrong.

The strong men, on the other hand, enjoy the dance, which is exactly what it’s like— a Parisian tango, a bullfight, a test and a display of strength and will. We both know who is going to win, in the end, but it’s the art of the dance that boils our blood and brings us together in any meaningful way at all.

But do you think they can handle the reality, the responsibility, of that ownership once the dancing is done? My submission is not a fetish. I will not, as a matter of lifestyle,  traipse about the house naked in a collar and ten-inch heels (as attractive as I find that image). Mine is a submission of will and mind over flesh, a blind and absolute worship and devotion which, like a fine and rare artefact or a very good horse, is easily ruined if not cared for properly.

There are Spanish horses so fiery that they will visibly scorn a rider they deem inadequate, and play all sorts of nasty tricks on them as a means of showing their displeasure if they don’t simply dump the offending clod on the ground. But for the right rider with soft hands and unyielding legs, who takes the time to know the mind of the horse and not just its back, they are devoted and delightful servants. These horses will die of sorrow for the loss of their Master. If there is such a thing as reincarnation, I believe I must have been one, or should be in some future life, because that’s the nature I was born with.

Do you think I can find a man with hands like that? Once the dance is finished, they turn into clods whom I suspect couldn’t care less whether it was a mule or a swaybacked cow they had under them, as long it will endure whatever pleasure there is to be taken.

I once loved a man who finished the dance and still danced on, and made me believe I was something rare and fine, his treasure, his pride. And all the while he was poisoning me with shame, entertaining donkeys and mules who delighted in seeing me brought low with his neglect and atrocious disloyalties, all the while demanding my own perfection. For a little while, I felt I had found some kind of heaven, if there’s any to be had while one is still breathing and wearing flesh, and I knew a contentment so vast it frightened me. I had found my own treasure, and I valued it so highly I felt I would die when it turned out to be cheap and nasty and toxic.

I think I will never let another man catch me like that. I will never dance again, except where the steps are tame and predictable and everyone at the end simply goes home to their lives with a memory of a pleasant evening.

The god of my mind proved to be a small man behind a red curtain, with a megaphone and a whip, and my disillusionment has torn me out of Oz and thrown me back to the farm, and there are no fucking rainbows, and will be none anymore or ever again.

And in my mind, his is not the god he imagines himself to be, but always, always, that ridiculous twerp hiding behind his curtain, full of sound and fury…

… signifying nothing. I will not die of grief for him.

So there, I have lopped off the hydra’s seventh head and already there are buds forming, seven to take its place. I have just, for the moment, run out of will to swing sword or pen.