: January 2001 : Darklady
was, as he had always been, tall and slim with a
certain awkwardly languid sensuality about him.
An aura of innocence and experience that each seek
to exaggerate their actual existence. We have known
each other long enough to remember when we were
shadows of our current selves--when gin and LSD
made the walls bleed, when hospital claustrophobia
was too intense, when lovers fled and lovers-yet-to-flee
were introduced. We have been warm, if wary, satellites
in erratic orbit around one another, affecting each
other's lives, yet never intersecting for long--just
long enough to observe or influence.
I do admit to being responsible for
a certain amount of member inflation during the
festive weekend in question, however.
I'll always think of Minister Crow
as lounging against a surface--a wall, a banister,
his own folded arms, an invisible form of support
when the real thing is missing. Something about
his sleepy listening face demands a posture equally
relaxed for his lanky form.
Recently our orbits passed near
one another again, briefly opening our doors of
perception a bit wider. I was delighted to receive
e-mail from him afterwards with his observations.
"It was nice to see you again, albeit however briefly,"
he began. "And almost always in the company of leather
or PVC clad men, I might add. So I must assume that
either you're enjoying yourself immensely or that
you're turning a fair profit on the white slavery
market," he concluded.
Being a cagey little vixen I asked
him why I couldn't be doing both. I am, after all,
a multi-tasking maniac. Why not make a profit at
what gives one plea
Sure? We agreed that such a thing
was possible and left it at that.
For the record, I am not a participant
in the white slavery market. There are literalists
in the world that would like to believe otherwise
but such is not the case. I was, in fact, enjoying
myself immensely with my leather or PVC clad men,
although I am certain that legend has vastly inflated
their numbers. I do admit to being responsible
for a certain amount of member inflation during
the festive weekend in question, however.
Minister Crow's comment was amusing
not only because of its proposed professional
expansion but also because it dovetailed with
something I'd been processing during that weekend:
obedience and submission.
Raised in the hope that I would
become a Good Catholic Girl and a little patriot,
I learned how to Yes, Sir and Yes, Ma'am at an
early age. I picked up after myself, took care
of my toys and clothes, got good grades in spite
of Everything Else, and took care of others like
a good girl should. Inside, of course, I seethed
with frustration, anger and resentment. I became
the "strong one," the one people could depend
on during tough times, the one who never needed
any help. I was responsible and, although rarely
in the way that my mainstream instructors had
hoped--obedient, although to ideals, as opposed
to individuals. I was not, however, at all submissive
to any authority.
As other hyper-responsible, driven
people before me have noted, always being the
strong one can get tiresome after a while--especially
if you enjoy an assortment of experiences. Little
did Minister Crow know that one of those leather
or PVC clad men (it was rubber, actually) was
acting as a guiding Dark Angel to this darkest
of ladies; a beautifully real vision of flesh
and anima, mesmerizing me into a quiet and contemplative
state of mind and spirit, thus allowing me to
reach into unexplored but tempting nooks and crannies
of my psyche. Indeed, making me feel at moments
akin to that genuinely romantic Roman maiden,
compelled to touch and gaze upon a face forbidden
Not to carry the metaphor too
far, but for me, the conflict between a desire
to be obedient to an honorable agreement and submit
to a will equal to, or even greater than my own,
and my wild nature's resistance to being censored
or controlled is a fearful and intoxicating attempt
to balance the lamp of illumination without spilling
a drop of oil on the sleeping dreamer. Psyche
got what she wanted--and more, ultimately--even
though her hands were unsteady. I have no hopes
for immortality. I merely wish to avoid spilling
too much oil while trying to gaze upon the face
of the forbidden.
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