I will be the gladdest thing under the sun!
I will touch a hundred flowers
And not pick one.
-  Edna St. Vincent Millay

Recently, a couple bloggers remarked on getting flowers from their partners. There was genuine appreciation, enjoyment, and love seen in the giving and receiving of flowers.  It was really, really sweet.

Antonio has never given or sent me flowers.  Not once, EVER.

When I read the blogs, I thought, “Awww, how cute!”

Then I thought, “There is probably something SERIOUSLY wrong with me that I hate to get flowers, huh? Everyone else seems to like it…”

Because the fact that Antonio has never given me flowers? I can’t even begin to describe how much I love that about him.  I can’t think of a less loving gesture than “Here, sweetheart, I got you The Gift That Rots And Dies Before Your Very Eyes!”

Yes.  I realize I’m probably the only one who thinks about flowers that way.  My blog, my insanity.  So hush.

Don’t get me wrong, I love flowers themselves.  They’re gorgeous. 

But, see, I also like kittens. And I would be repulsed if The Man showed up one day with a kitten’s head and said, “Here, baby, I know you like kittens, so I cut the head off one and brought it to you.  If you store it right, it’ll take a week to rot and stink before you have to throw it away!”

The repulsion would be higher with a kitten’s head, sure.  But cut flowers are just… *shudder*  They look nice for a bit, but they are dead in your arms the minute you get them.  That vase of water is a crude life support system that will fail, and fail very quickly.

And then those pretty flowers will turn putrid shades of brown. They will drop pollen and petals on your furniture as their cells wither and die. They will make their water stink like death and decay.   Their silent death rattle is sad and ugly.  And they will have to be disposed of.

(Incidentally, it boggles my mind that we bring flowers to  sickbeds.  Look, I got these hacked off flowers to sit next to you.  Watch them wilt and die.  Oh, and while you’re at it, get better soon!)

Now, I might cut flowers from my own garden, if I’ve got company coming over for dinner or it’s a holiday or something.  I also would use nice linens too.  And I wouldn’t refill a cup I’d been using all day when we sat down to dinner.  I’d do all those things for the same reason – sure they are more effort, sure they make more work for me, but the guests will probably appreciate the atmosphere.  I sure as hell don’t appreciate it enough by myself or just with family to use pressed linen napkins every time I eat.  It’s work and it’s stupid to do in everyday life.

So my plea has always been:  Please don’t bring me flowers.

Bring me a potted plant.  Bring me seedlings in a tray.  Bring me a grow-your-own herb garden. Bring me potting soil and gardening gloves.  Bring me something that I can nurture and tend to and watch it live and breath and grow.  Bring me something alive.

I’d rather symbolize love, thought, care, etc. with something growing than something rotting.

It never strikes me as odd, the way I feel about cut flowers. 

And it never strikes me as odd, the way I feel about the M/s dynamic.

But in both cases, when I’m looking at the rest of the world I get the feeling I’m a bit of an outlier.

And that’s okay.  I’d rather have this relationship with no dying flowers.

I’m a happy girl.

I don’t have any celebrity crushes… I mean, there are men (and a few women) who are pretty and all… But that’s just not what makes me LUST.

However, I’ve found I have two distinct character crushes.

The actors who portray the characters? Meh. I could care less.  They’re probably boring douchebags.

But the characters they portray? AWESOME.

The weird totally expected part? The characters are complete psychopaths.

First up, Dexter. From the aptly titled Showtime show Dexter.  (The title of the post is a quote from the show, btw.)

Dexter is a sociopathic serial killer. And I adore him.

HERE, you can watch the opening credits for Dexter. Watch and obsess. Look how Dexter’s mundane morning routine makes EVERY action look like torture, pain, bondage, killing, and violence. It’s fucking brilliant. Seriously, go watch it ALL THE WAY THROUGH.  (There will be a quiz.)

My obsessions aside, the opening credits actually ARE brilliant from a cinematic point of view – in under two minutes, you will know everything you need to know about Dexter. That’s skill.

Second character is Sylar (aka Gabriel Gray). He’s the “villain” of the tv show Heroes.  And he’s awesome beyond words.

He is tortured and evil, and a serial killer who murders, violently and without remorse. He peeks down the road of redemption, but then (basically) says, “Actually, you know what? I like killing people better,” and heads back to being a breathtaking badass.

…Hrm…

I wonder what that all says about me… As I said, I’ve never been one for celebrity crushes.  I mean, I’d make out with Megan Fox.  She’s so goddamn PRETTY.  But I have managed two pseudo “character crushes” and they are BOTH murderous sociopaths.  Huh.

I suppose we have “celebrity” (or “character” in my case) crushes on people who possess hyperbolic versions of traits we lust after in our real lives.   It’s safe to be attracted to the darkest parts of people who are confined to my TV and their scripts.  Because I sure as shit wouldn’t want those guys in my REAL life. 

I don’t yearn for Antonio to moonlight as a serial killer.  Not so much…  He’s got those traits (same ones the characters have) that  I lust after, and he’s got them in spades – I love tough, rugged badassery. I love a slightly callous nature that is not an act. I love a man with PASSIONS that run deep and true, but are carefully chosen and compartmentalized.  I love a man in control of himself AND his surroundings.  I love a man with deep confidence in himself and who operates in dangerous situations without paralyzing fear.   And that’s him.  Conveniently without the murderous inclinations.

But in that realm of hot, wet darkness where my crushes and fetishes and fantasies grow?  Yeah… The idea of serial killer is fucking HOT.   I guess I just want to feel a little scared sometimes?  A little disposable, maybe?  A little at risk?  I dunno exactly.  I’ll have to ask The Man.  He knows me better than I know myself.

In any case, I just thought I’d share that glimpse into my brain.  No need to thank me. *grins*

Well, I do.

But that’s not actually the point of this post.  The point is I’ve been tutoring a little girl from Israel.  She’s a bright, wonderful 12-year-old who lives in K’far Hayeladim, which is a place where children from Israel whose parents can’t care for them are relocated.  Her “adoptive” family here in the U.S. vacations where I live, and this summer they brought the girl (Katya) to the States for a few weeks.  Katya is receiving tutoring in English through an agency which hires independent contractors (like me!) to tutor.  I spent a year tutoring ESOL (English for Speakers of Other Languages), so I was the obvious choice. 

Anyhow, today Katya and I were practicing ordering food.  I gave the her a fake menu then staged a conversation.  It started off very auspiciously.  

Me:  Would you like something to drink?

Katya: I like cock!

Me: Um, almost Katya!  Say “I’d like coke, please.”

Katya:  I’d like cock, please.

I seriously thought I might fall out of my chair from trying to repress the wild urge to laugh. Or I’d say something totally in appropriate like “Me too, Katya, ME too…”

You’ll all be terribly proud to know I held it together.

Barely.

You know those random romantic/sexy moments that make you grin like a fool?  Your heart flutters and your breathing quickens and you get the urge to squeal, even if you’re in public?

I had one of those the other day…  It was a long day that included a 22-hour shift and I was generally just trying to suck it up and make it through the lameness of work.  And I got this email, completely out of the blue:

You know what I miss? You cleaning off my cock after I piss.

Rawr!  *squeal-wiggle-grin*

I miss it too.

Kinks?  I haz them.

But what I really miss is not just the act…  It’s the feelings that go with proof-positive displays of intimacy and slavery (yeah, yeah, even though I’m *not* a slave, blah).

I experience a depth of emotion that is, simply put, different, when I actually DO something I say I want/will do.  Before I ever cleaned him off after he pissed, I promised him (in so many words) “I will kneel beside you while you’re pissing, and wait until you’re done, wait until you take my hair in your hands and yank my face toward you.  I’ll lick and suck the bitter, foul drops of urine until all I can taste is you.”

And I meant it.   I really did.   It was a rush to think about, to imagine, to say, to promise, to *know* it was true. But if it was a rush to say it, it was a fucking tidal wave to DO it.

And that is such a teeny tiny act in the scope of things.

It got me thinking about the bigger acts.  Antonio always, ALWAYS says: “Actions speak louder than words.”  He is right, of course, without a single doubt in my mind.  Words are beautiful and emotions intense. Promises and avowals are powerful and deep.  But actions?  Well, hell, they’re just better.

I have seen things that have given me unshakable faith in that fact.

People use so many words.  And they think they mean them.  They swear they do.  People stand in churches before their families, friends, their partner and their God and swear eternal devotion. And weddings are beautiful things, don’t get me wrong.  Those verbal commitments, the love, the promises, are all fab-u-lous.

But I’ve seen something better.

I’ve watched a woman drag cushions off a couch in a hospice and place them on the floor beside her dying husband …  I’ve watched her lower his hospital bed all the way and curl up on those cushions so she could sleep  while holding his hand through the night, every night, during his final weeks …   I watched weight fall off her because she couldn’t bear to eat when he couldn’t … I watched her fight unimaginable emotions as he broke out of his unconsciousness in the middle of the night from pain so intense  they didn’t have pain killers that could even take the edge off …  I watched her stay strong by his side as cancer ate his bones and lungs and brain and stomach until he was a shell of a human being, struggling past endurance for every single breath …  I watched her gently shake her husband every time his breathing slowed in those last few days, desperate not to lose him …  I watched the pain and resolve in her face when, one day, she started to reach out to shake him and pulled her hand back at the last minute because she knew it was kinder to let him go …  I took the call from her at 11:30pm the next night, telling me he had died …  After I hung up, I crawled back into bed with her (and his) two little girls, six and ten years old, my Godsisters and watched them sleep, fatherless …  I held the younger one in my arms the next morning, while the older one sat on her mother’s lap, as this amazing woman told them their daddy went to heaven and promised them he wasn’t hurting anymore.

…

A decade and a half ago I watched her stand in church beside that man and  say, “’Til death do us part.”

And three years ago I watched her lie on the cold, hard floor beside that same man and live it.

…

When you’ve seen something like that?  You know with a certainty beyond reproach that actions speak louder than words.

(Bradley’s on the microphone with RasMG, all people in the dance will agree that we’re well-qualified to represent the LPC… C… Me and Louie, we’re gonna run to the party, dance to the rhythm, it gets haaaaarder…  SORRY!  Couldn’t help myself.)

There is a disconnect between Antonio and I.

It’s not a bad thing.  It just happens during the summer.

He is off working gross hours (getting up at 4:15am sounds fun, hey?) five, six, or seven days a week.

His routine is pretty focused.  (And horrifying, if you ask me.) Up at stupid o’clock in the morning, working all day, home in the early evening, then he eats, showers (sometimes works out beforehand) and naps. Then he’s up for a little bit, and it’s off to bed. Repeat.

Typically, I talk to him for a grand total of 3-4 emails and about 5-10 minutes at the end of the day to say goodnight.

It’s epically lame.

But I’m handling I much better than I have in the past.

Do I WISH I could spend more time with him? Yes, obviously. Long-distance is not exactly the awesomest thing on Earth, and even with an end in sight, it is still taxing, frustrating, isolating, and shitty at times. There is no replacement for the in-person stuff and I can’t trick myself into thinking THIS is the ultimate way to experience a relationship.  It’s not.  I know that.  I’ve had it both ways, and I know which is better.

Because it is just BETTER to experience him with all my senses, rather than just a few. Temporary “sensory” deprivation? Cool. I can handle it, it can even be fun and educational. But it’s never the same and it’s never as good as the FULL experience.

And long-distance is a thick, hot blanket of sensory deprivation. I can get used to it, I can deal with it, I can learn to appreciate the things I can experience, I can smile under that blanket and feel GOOD… Sure. But it’s never ever going to compare to being free the blanket, letting light in, breathing in the refreshing air, and seeing him right there…

And I notice that under the blanket, while I can tell myself “focus on the sounds because you can still hear” the reality is that while I CAN hear, the sounds are a bit muffled. Little nuance is lost, and it’s unavoidable.

The things I can experience while long distance are altered, filtered, CHANGED by the fact that their corresponding movements, breaths, shifting of weight, facial expressions, scents, etc. are NOT available to my senses.

It’s like watching a ballet with no music. It’s still beautiful, and it feels too beautiful to express it to you in words – you people just CAN’T understand how amazing that dance I saw was, no matter HOW many ways I talk about it! And while that’s true, I did not have a complete experience, no matter how magical and unique it felt to watch, no matter how convinced I am you cannot understand the magic I witnessed.

Even if I listen to the music after the dance. Or if I put in headphones and listen to a recording of the music along with the dance… It’s just not the same. The only way it is the same is if I am hearing the music at the moment the dancer is – if the vibrations from the instruments, played in an orchestra pit below both our feet, are reaching us both at the same time, making micro-variations in our bloodflow and heartbeats… There is no replication or substitute.  None.

But I think perhaps it’s a good thing.

Yes, a good thing.  It’s GOOD to practice with the muzzles and the blankets and the impediments blocking some of my senses. Like a baseball player who grabs two bats to swing while he’s waiting on deck. The added weight is a strain, a departure from normal. It helps build the muscles to the point where the regular bat, the real way, feels easier, much easier.

The thing about that, though, is you have to put down one of the bats if you’re ever going to step to the plate and take a swing.

ANYWAY… Back to my original point…

I’m handling it better. And maybe it’s because I know there is an end in sight and I’m looking forward to that end so much. Or maybe because I’m just learning to value long-distance for what it is, while recognizing what it can never be.  Or perhaps I just know I’m doing everything I can to enjoy my time here, to accomplish the things I need to accomplish, and prepare for my future. I’m enjoying today because today is good. And because my tomorrows keep getting better.

It’s blissful, when you look at it that way.

I haven’t posted all that much… I suck! Tsk, bad, shame, etc.

As I posted a couple posts back, I’ve gone vegan. And I think that’s part of the reason I haven’t posted.  It’s all I’ve been thinking about, and I need to get it out of my system so I can move on.

A little while back, I saw how Pee-TA (I just don’t need them showing up at my blog, so they shall be Pee-TA here) had flipped out over President Obama killing a fly.

(But, seriously, that was awesome. We elected a friggin’ ninja as president. I’ve TRIED to swat flies. I cannot do it on my first attempt, I’m pretty sure I couldn’t do it on national television, and Obama is left-handed and he nailed the thing with his NON-dominant hand. You should SEE me try to do things with my non-dominant hand. You’d swear I had a stroke.)

Anyway, they flipped out and I heard they were trying to offer him this cruelty-free bug catcher. I went to see what it was, and arrived at two conclusions. One, hahahahahahaha. And two, Pee-TA people are generally insane.

But… While I was there I watched the Meet Your Meat video and… Ugh. I mean, I KNEW what went into killing animals but… It has always been a sort of “If I don’t see it, it totally doesn’t happen!” mentality. But that two-year-old idea is on par with covering your eyes and saying, “If I can’t see you you can’t see me!” And that sort of reasoning has finally run its course for me.

I’m just NOT comfortable killing animals. I mean, I have a kitty and a doggie and a rat… And could I kill them?  No, no, and no. They can feel pain, they can feel fear, they can suffer. Because they are lovely little sentient creatures, trying to enjoy their own time on this planet we all call home. And I just can’t be a part of pain, suffering, exploitation, or slaughter or a sentient creature anymore. I’m no longer indulging myself in ignorance as a means to consume their flesh, or enslave and torture them for their byproducts – their eggs, their milk, their honey. It’s not mine to take. I don’t have permission, I can’t get permission, and I’m through convincing myself I’m entitled to it.

Entitlement and necessity are two separate things.

And it’s simply not necessary for me to exploit animals.  In terms of food, humans have dull teeth and a long digestive system. We are not carnivores. We are like chimpanzees, who eat fruits and vegetables and the occasional insect. But, I have socially evolved to the point where that “occasional insect” is totally unnecessary. I can, and now choose, to obtain my protein through other sources that don’t carry with them a personal ethical compromise.

I also watched (yesterday) the documentary called Earthlings that came out in 2003. It’s narrated by Joaquin Phoenix, and… While I certainly don’t hop right on board with every word (especially in the beginning), I see the point… Barely, through my tears, but I see it.

And, I should mention I don’t just take all this as fact without knowing my shit. Without being too specific, my father works in an industry that supplies… Stuff. Heh. Anyway, that stuff is used all over the country. In the marine industry, in the construction industry, in the chicken industry. He’s been inside many chicken processing plants including Perdue and Bell & Evans. He says one minute in a Perdue processing plant will put you off their chicken literally for the rest of your life. The smell is noxious, the practices are unsanitary (at best) the slaughter is cruel, the cages are terrifying, there are dead and deformed chickens everywhere, etc.

(For the record, to prove I’m not fear mongering or anything – he said Bell & Evans was LIGHTYEARS different. They have pristine working conditions, they hand-clean each chicken after slaughter in individual sinks – everything is incredible there, as far as chicken processing plants go.  The chickens are fed nutritious and vegetarian feed – no eating of their dead cage-mates for them!  They do not receive antibiotics or growth hormones, etc.  He said they should be the industry standard, but it would probably cost too much to actually do things RIGHT in the bigger places.  And who wants to do things right when it comes to things we EAT, yeah?  Anyway,  you get what you pay for – and if you have the choice, buy Bell & Evans.)

So… From talking to Dad, I know that what I see in documentaries IS reality. Especially ones like Earthlings, which is not associated with Pee-TA. And it’s not a reality I can be a part of any longer.

I feel a million times better, about myself as a person, and in terms of my health. (I think most of that is due to the elimination of dairy. It’s sort of ridiculous that humans drink dairy products anyway – and I’ve always thought so. I switched to soy milk a looooong time ago because I couldn’t get over the fact that humans were the only animal who consumed milk past the age of weaning. And we don’t even consume our own, we consume a cow’s! Insanity, that is. And SO many people don’t realize how gross dairy is making them feel until they eliminate it from their diets.  I know I didn’t.)

So, clearly, I’m happier and healthier living vegan.  I feel in closer harmony to my ethics about how we as humans should treat other sentient beings, how humans and nature should try to restore more of a sense of harmony.  It’s true that you can judge someone by how they treat those “below” them. 

Being vegan is cheaper too, in terms of food, and the quality of my food is much higher for less money (meat and dairy is expensive!!!). And I am learning to cook all kinds of super-healthy and delicious food. I find myself hungry at normal intervals as well. This is a HUGE thing for me, because I have long since stopped recognizing proper hunger signals due to eating disorders – I would go for periods without eating, or through periods of binge eating. I’m eating a normal amount of food, losing weight, not feeling hungry AND…

The part that MOST fascinated me… I haven’t “slipped” once. For some reason, I was convinced I would fail. You know, like a diet.

But that’s where I was making my mistake in reasoning. It’s not a diet.  It’s an ethical decision. And our truest ethics are not up for forgetting or failing or being tempted otherwise. It’s not like I go out on weekends and “slip” when it comes to child abuse. I don’t randomly punch kids and go “Oh, damn, I was on this ‘no hurting children’ thing and all of a sudden I got a CRAVING to kick a little ass…”  It’s just… Not the way it works. So there is nothing to “tempt” me because I truly don’t WANT the products in my body or my life.

Anyway… I posted this to explain, and to get it out of my system.

This will be the last time I talk about it on the blog, other than in passing or, “Omg, I made the best meal!  Food porn FTW!” Because this is a personal choice, not a public agenda. While I believe animal rights SHOULD be a public agenda, and at the very least some of the true atrocities in factory farming simply HAVE to be addressed… It’s a personal choice of mine, and I don’t think less of anyone for making a different choice.  I LOVE choices and I LOVE that we can all make them.  I do love it most when people make informed choices – the uninformed kinds tend to lead to crappy outcomes.   But I don’t take issue with informed meat-eaters.  I honestly don’t.  And 99.9% of vegans would probably smack me upside the head for that or just shun me (I dunno, I have only met two vegans ever and they were actually wicked nice.)  But I have my own reasons for this, and I’m happy to explain if anyone cares enough to email me and ask!  I’m ALWAYS up for discussion.  Always.

I will also say, unequivocally, that there is absolutely NO scientific or medical reason to be vegan. None at all. There is ONLY an ethical reason. Yes, there are hormones and antibiotics in most meat, yes many of the animals that go to slaughter you would never in a million years eat if you saw them alive – covered in sores and pus and hideous growths (I’ve seen Dad’s pictures – holy hell) – and sure the WAY a lot of people dress up their meats and cheeses is unhealthy as all get out. BUT… With careful planning and a little willpower you can make a diet composed of almost ANYTHING healthy. If anyone tries to convince you otherwise, you can essentially dismiss them. Including me.

If anyone is curious about any aspect of the philosophy or the practice (or the recipes!) of vegan, I’m more than happy to talk about it. Feel free to comment, or email me at chloe(at)thenaturalorders(dot)com.

And yes, before anyone asks… If Antonio made me eat meat again?  I’d do it.  I’d hate it like I’d hate doing something else I felt went against my personal ethical code… But I’d do it if he said I had to. For the same reason that if I had a  gun, a directive to kill, and choice between my mother and a stranger then I’d kill the stranger without a second’s hesitation.  My life is based on a hierarchy, and he’s at the top of it.  Now, granted, he’s at the top for a good reason – he’s an amazing man.  And I’m positive he wouldn’t make me do something I felt was ethically corrupt unless he had a SERIOUSLY good reason and had done all the research he could to make sure there was no other way. 

Oh, and yes I’ll be cooking meat for him.  His body, his choice – his woman, his cook!  (Btw, I never thought I’d get to say “his body his choice” with male pronouns.  Tee hee hee.)

(Alternate title: Why I Love My Mother & Co.)

So, right before the Fourth, I went over to my mom’s house. And I figured this conversation was as good as any to explain why I love and adore my mom so very much.

She had two of her friends over… Her former college roommate I call Skid. (She’s awesome.) And their friend Milton. (He is also awesome.) And then my mom. (The epitome of awesome.)

Here’s how it went down:

Mom: Honey go look in your room! Look on your window seat!

Me: *expecting a present* Okay!

Me: *BLOODCURDLING SCREAM*

Mom: *utterly delighted with herself* Isn’t he GREAT?

Me: He’s a fucking mannequin! Why is he in my room? More to the point, what the hell are you doing with a MANNEQUIN in the first place?

Mom: I ordered him online. Look at his little melon head! It’s small, just like his feet, see? It’s so he can be dressed easier.

Me: Truly outstanding… But you don’t honestly think that passes for an explanation, do you?

Mom: Well, I’m going to *pauses for dramatic effect* cover him in moss so he’s a moss-man! The moss is arriving in a couple days. I ordered it online too. Then I’m going to make another, covered in sand. And another, and he’ll be a mosaic-man! Harrison said I should make about a dozen and put them all around the backyard.

Me: Harrison thinks fecal humor is the height of comedy too, yanno.

Mom: *tilts head* Fair point. Wanna go say hi to The Idiots? [editor’s note: “The Idiots” is what she and her friends call themselves.]

Me: *goes out on the porch* Sup Skid. Milton. So! Who has to sleep in my room with that thing?

Milton:  *raises hand*

Me: Man, I’m sorry. That mannequin watching you sleep is, like, eight thousand bucks in therapy.

Milton: See, I think he IS therapy. Mmmmmmm…

Skid: It’s true. He’s the perfect man.

Milton: He does have a problem though… *gestures to his crotch*

Me: He’s not hung?

Skid: Not hung at ALL.

Milton: I’m sure we can fix that.

Skid: *squints at Milton* Chlo, did you touch the mannequin?

Me: Erm, yeah…

Skid: You should probably go sterilize your hands.

Me: Tsk!

I love my mother and her friends. Such insane(ly) cool people.

I ate vegan yesterday, for fun.

(Yes, I think it’s fun.  OMG DON’T JUDGE ME.)

I’m going to eat vegan for a couple weeks and see how I feel. (I used to be vegan, btw.  This isn’t a random choice.  It’s a return.  And damn, did I feel so much better eating that way…)

I realize the picture above would offend all the freakishly diehard vegans.

But I think it’s friggin’ hilarious.

So diehard vegans can go suck an egg…substitute.

*rimshot*

(I have had to REwrite all of this. I was IRRITATED.  So if you see any random words like “BASTARDS!” or any inexplicable keyboard flails or I come across as supremely bitchy for no reason… That’s why.)

In my last post, I mentioned my friend Rais. I’ve known him since we were 12. It was a pleasant time during which I screamed at him to “drop dead” and “leave me ALONE” and kicked him in the shins every chance I got. (It’s remarkable how little has changed.)

But seriously, we’ve grown very close in the last fourteen years and I’ve spent a lot of time with his family.

Rais himself is  very Americanized, but being as his family fled Iran in the 80’s, they remain steeped in Persian tradition.

Most of Rais’s heightened awareness about partner disrespect comes from his deep frustration with his mother, who takes ANYTHING and EVERYTHING his father hands out, says, or does – without question.  No matter what.  Even when it’s moronic.  (And his father can be a dolt, so it is often moronic.)

Rais’s mother was simply born and raised to know this is her place.  Period.   No discussion.  It’s just is the way it IS.  And it is perfectly in line with her cultural norms, just not with most American ones.

Bloggers who occupy any sort of similar submissive-to-their-partner place in their relationship are often going against our cultural norms – myself included.  We spend a lot of time talking, discussion, evaluating, thinking, pondering, questioning, and just plain FREAKING OUT about serving and obeying. About our reservations. About hesitations and motivations.  About labels and hypotheticals and doin’ it wrong.   About our failures and omgwhatdotheymean. About punishments and rewards.  About expectations and reciprocation.  About isolation and struggle.  About what it is, what it isn’t, and what it should be.  About our tricks and tips and about manipulations. And a bajillionmillion other things.

And Rais’s mother just kinda… DOES it.

She just serves and obeys. It isn’t some calling she felt. It isn’t a deep need. She doesn’t agonize over decisions, motivations, needs, desires, or labels. She doesn’t blog about it, join groups to discuss it, or hide it from her neighbors. In general, she doesn’t do any of the crap that a lot of us do.

But, the part I find most fascinating and awesome is that she doesn’t rely on his dominance to maintain her submission.

She doesn’t think HE is responsible for keeping HER in line. She is a wife, and hence she is a submissive one.  He is her husband and hence he is a dominant one. She is not submissive BECAUSE he’s dominant. She’s submissive because she took a vow of marriage and she takes it, and everything her culture demands it entail, seriously.  The End.

It’s not a choice, a lifestyle, a decision, an activity, a negotiation, an evolution, a kink, etc.  There are no collars or contracts.  It’s just… Life. Raw, organic, tough, trying, rewarding, life.

And if he doesn’t watch her every second of the day?  If he doesn’t create a litany of rules for her to follow?  If he doesn’t enforce his dominance consistently?

It doesn’t matter!  Her level of submission is NOT related to his level of overtly displayed dominance.  He just IS dominant, she just IS submissive.  They are simply states of being.

Cooooooooooool…

Anyway, the POINT of this (and I swear to God I had a point) was that I have read blog posts by slaves/subs/pets/whatevers discussing times when their Boss-figures had “failed” at keeping them in line.  He had failed to keep his focus, to keep “on top of” the submissive partner.  He had failed to pay enough attention. He had failed to make sure she was following rules.  Blah blah blah.  FAIL. 

And often the submissive blogged about the “bad” or unsubmissive/unslavelike things she had done during that period when his mind/control/energy were elsewhere.  The Consequences of His Failure.

Sometimes, I’ve even seen the dominant partner apologized for his “failure” to keep his submissive in her place, etc.

And…  I just can’t get on board with that.

There is no capacity for Antonio to “fail” at keeping me in line.  The possibility does not exist, because if it did, it would imply that I don’t have my priorities or my motivations or my deepest desires in line with our relationship dynamic. It would mean, if I relied on an EXTERNAL force to dictate my submission, that I am not submissive to him at my core.  I’d be, in short, an entirely different person. Perhaps one who was playing or forcing a role.  And that’s just not the case.

The quieter things become in my head, the longer I have to think about this stuff with Antonio and the “no longer a slave” stuff… The more I realize it only affected me because I was losing my grip on reality, and I was filling my head with a whole lot of theory and clutter and I lost sight of the most basic truths in this relationship.

In a few years, unchecked, I might have even worked myself into a selfish and convoluted enough place where I could have thought that Antonio actually bore responsibility for making me be (or feel) submissive toward him.  (Humans are fabulous at convincing themselves of things, even when they are categorically insane.)  I could have decided there were actions (or lack thereof) that implied he had lost his focus, dropped the ball, or failed as a dominant partner.

And, holy hell, is that ever a load of bullshit. 

But I can see now that I was inching along that track… No wonder I actually managed to feel slighted when he “took away” my title as a slave.

I was an idiot for thinking that’s what he was doing, btw.  He took away pretense and filler.  He took away meaningless bullshit.  Looking back on his words, I realized he said “of course, you are still submissive to me” and that was the most important statement of all.  It wasn’t him saying “you are submissive to me because I say so” or anything…  It was merely a statement of fact.

Of COURSE I am submissive to him.

It’s our reality.  It’s not a lifestyle or a choice or a negotiation.  It just IS.

Because when you remove all the rules, the collars and the discussions, the titles and the protocols?  What remains is the simple fact that I am incapable of relating to him in ANY manner other than as a partner in a submissive position.

This “being his” business is who I am, NOT something I do.

It requires no external motivation.  It is a state of being.  I’m his.  It IS his way or the highway.  It just IS.

And… I have all kinds of further thoughts on this but I’m winding down for the evening.   Lucky you guys – I’m shutting up!

(Oh. And.  I probably don’t need to mention this, but obviously this had nothing to do with bedroom kink.  This is a discussion about how and why different people maintain their dynamic in different ways, and on different levels.   There are no hidden metaphors about how bondage is crappy and I should just find my core and maintain wrist restriction in my head or something.  I mean, duh, of course it’s not…  Because bondage is kickass. *beams*)

I just spent TWO HOURS writing a post in Windows Live Writer.

And without warning, my computer shit the bed. Post = gone.

Everyone must die.