Auguste Rodin: Kneeling Woman, c. 1900–1908

Auguste Rodin: Kneeling Woman, c. 1900–1908 (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Alright.  So, I think I’m probably going to piss some people off today.  But I’m okay with it.  Shit happens.  And this is a bit fragmented.  And ranty.  I tried to pull it all together, but I’m not sure I actually did.  Deal with it.

I’ve not a feminist.  Never, even in my pink-and-blue-hair-girlfriend-hand-holding-Silvia-Plath days, considered myself a feminist.  Men and women…  well, we aren’t equal.  And maybe we shouldn’t be treated as such.  I don’t want to get a job that some else is better qualified for, just because he had a cock and I’ve got a cunt.  And don’t say it doesn’t happen.  It does.  All the time.  And I don’t want to be expected to do what a man does (even though I can run a chain saw, change a tire, shoot and gut a deer, and down a fifth of whiskey with no problem).  And I definitely don’t want a man that is “in touch with his feminine side.”  Nope, sorry.  If you like to get manicures and your cuticles cared for, sorry buddy, but you are not the guy for me.

I think women’s lib fucked a lot of shit up.  A lot.  100 years ago…  We knew our place.  We knew our role.  And so did our men.  We found satisfaction in having a clean house and dinner ready.  He worked hard and expected to be taken care of when he got home.  Damn fucking right.  Simple. Clear cut.  Everyone had a job, a duty, and they knew what it was.  There was no middle ground, no grey area.   You do what is expected of you, I’ll do what is expected of me, and at the end of the day, we crawl into bed together and fuck like bunnies.

And you know what, even as I say this, I’m not living it.  I’m the fucking bread-winner in my family.  I’m the one who makes the most money.  I’m the one who carries the insurance.  I’m the one who pays the bills.  I’m the one who has always held a job.  I’m the one responsible.  But I don’t want to be this.  I’d love to be barefoot and pregnant.  I’d love to cook dinner, do the laundry, take care of the kids.  I’d love to garden and can vegetables (which I still do, but not to the extent that I would like), raise chickens, and butcher pigs.  But the fact is, that’s not my life.  And I’m okay with that.  But I think I’d be more content if it was.  And I know I’m not the only chick out there in this position.

And we, as women, are given so many mixed messages.  Societal pressures.  We are told to be “strong,” “independent.”  We are told that we can do whatever we want.  Be whoever we want to be.  But then, in the same breath, we have all these pressures exerted on us to be feminine.  To be pretty.  To put on make up and spend hours in the bathroom.  To have our nails done.  Our eyebrows waxed.  We are encouraged to be “girly-girls.”  To be sexy and coy and seductive.  And we can be all this things.  I am all this things (except maybe coy…  I’m to straight up for that I think).  I like to feel pretty.  I wear make-up almost everyday.  I do my hair (sometimes).  But I am independent.  Strong.  But, this dichotomy…  sometimes it gets to me.  Sometimes I find myself being pulled in two different directions, not knowing where I stand.  Or, perhaps to phrase it better, I don’t know where society wants me to stand, as it seems in conflict with where I want to be (and, btw, in case you were wondering, I say fuck society).

And, even worse, where does this leave our men?  There was a point, not that long ago, that, for multiple reasons, M quit his job.  I was making more than enough to support us, so he stayed home with the kids.  Mr. Mom.  He cooked, he cleaned.  And while he didn’t complain, M, well, he’s a “manly man” if you know what I mean.  He wears work boots and Carhart’s.  He cuts wood by hand.  He’s always got a 5 o’clock shadow.  What did this do to him?  His pride?  His ego?  His expectations of himself?  This is not what he was told should happen, but it did.  And although he never once said a word about it, I witnessed how it impacted him.  Not being the one to support the family.  Not earning a paycheck.  Changing dirty diapers and doing laundry.  I could see how it fucked with his head.  How it changed his behaviors.  And I wasn’t okay with it.  And, believe me, I’ll never ask him to do it again.

And you know what, I think this maybe one of the reasons I am so drawn to submission and the D/s lifestyle.  Because that is what I want.  That is what I crave.  Let me take care of you at home.  Let me listen to you.  Or expect punishment when I displease you.  Let me hand over the control that I carry everyday, the responsibilities, and let me just take care of you.  Please you.  Because, I know, that you will take care of me.  You will provide.  Let me get you your beer when you come home.  Let me rub your shoulders.  Let me serve you.  Let me suck your cock every night.  I’m okay with that.  I desire that.

I don’t want to be the man.  I don’t want to wear the pants.  I want to be naked.  Barefoot.  Sub-servant.  Sometimes I want to be objectified.  Sometimes I want to be used.  Sometimes I want you to hold me down and fuck the living shit out of me just because you can.  Sometimes I am a dirty fucking slut.  Sometimes I am a naughty little girl.  And you know what, I want you to tell me that.  Whisper it in my ear as you fuck me from behind.  Claim me.  Hard.  And don’t apologize for it.  Don’t second guess it.  You are the man, and it’s time to fucking act like it.

And fuck anyone who says differently.  Fuck anyone who says that it is “against what we fought for” when I get my hair pulled, when I get my ass smacked, when I sit at his feet.  Fuck that.  Because this is where I was meant to be.  This is where I feel right.

(And, don’t get me wrong.  I’m not saying that everything that has occurred is bad.  It’s not.  Fuck.  Idk.  I’m just saying, me, I’m not a feminist).

And, random songs that has nothing to do with anything tonight (except maybe the talk of manly men), but simply the fact that I am on a Jason Aldean kick…

Dirt Road Anthem

My Kinda Party