Several things in life make me ashamed to be a woman: the way we viciously compete with one another, sometimes for work, often for men, and sometimes merely for attention. We have a seemingly endless ability to cut our own kind down with scathing commentary regarding one another’s appearance: too fat, too thin, too fake, not fake enough, overdressed, underdressed, too slutty (AKA “overly exploiting” femininity), not feminine enough. Jesus. We make it so very difficult to form true friendships and virtually impossible to maintain them. I’ve spent a lifetime searching for this magickal realm—“The Sisterhood”—that people speak of, and I still haven’t found it.
The very word “feminism” causes me to shudder. It conjures up all manner of unpleasant imagery. Bra-burning, for starters. I can’t imagine being without one. I’m almost always bewildered by the bra-burners’ lack of femininity . If I ruled the world—and let’s face it, one day, I will, because, you know, I am woman hear me roar and all that—I would define a feminist as a woman who EMBRACES her feminine attributes, not one who shuns them as though they were a curse of sorts. But then again, being the proud owner of surgically enhanced 32DDD breasts, I assume that I’m far “too slutty” and certainly “too fake” to offer anything close to intelligent commentary on the subject.
I do not now, nor have I ever felt, that I’ve been at any disadvantage for being a member of the “fairer sex.” Truth be told, I’ve always felt far more fortunate than my male counterparts. Not since working in grocery stores for survival’s sake as a teenager have I maintained a “real” job. I haven’t had to. I’m privileged. I’m a woman. I’m beyond grateful for that not-so-small mercy, as I was certainly not privileged enough to afford an education stretching beyond high school.
I spent several years making very good money as a stripper. Beyond that, I was a professional dominatrix for twelve years. I imagine that feminists, in the traditional sense of the word, would say strippers are exploited by men. Nothing could be further from the truth. Quite the reverse, I should say. They’d probably approve of my latter choice of career, because everyone knows in order to be a good dominatrix it’s mandatory to hate men. Again, I hate to disappoint, but I was given some very sage advice at the beginning of my training as a domme: “You can’t hate men to do this. You have to love them. Otherwise, you’ll kill them.” Thank you, Madame Mia; you were, indeed, correct.
As a dominatrix, I gained a respect for men that would never have been possible in any other setting. I learned to admire their ability to be true to their nature, to be absolutely vulnerable to a complete stranger, often working through serious abuse issues in the process. I beat men black and blue. I urinated, defecated, spat, and vomited on them. I violated them, deprived them of their basic senses, and sometimes took their very lives in my hands with breath play. I also held them while they wept like the little boys that they still were in many ways—the little boy who was physically abused, deprived of love, locked in the closet, left in a dirty diaper for hours on end, abandoned and told they were worth nothing.
Men and women ARE different. It’s not an equality issue. It’s simply the fact that we are vastly different creatures. We just are. Given the choice, I’d probably have been born a man. Why? Because women are a pain in the ass.